


Not in Love (Letters)

by drarryangels



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Anonymous Pen Pals, Anonymous set up, Characters will appear throughout story, Depression, Draco/Harry - Freeform, Drarry, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Major Draco/Harry, Minor Hermione/Pansy, Multi, Other relationships - Freeform, PTSD, Pansmione - Freeform, Slow Build Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Slow Burn, Tumblr Prompt, anonymous date, eighth year, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-05-19 03:51:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 48,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19348924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drarryangels/pseuds/drarryangels
Summary: It's eighth year at Hogwarts, and Harry is unsurprisingly beyond miserable. Ron isn't coming back for his last year of school, Hermione is suddenly best friends with Pansy Parkinson, and Draco Malfoy won't stop ignoring him. Even all the House unity is going too splendidly to be exciting. Truthfully, Harry wishes he had never come back at all. That is, until he starts receiving letters from an anonymous sender.





	1. Harry

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a submission on Tumblr that I started working on, and now that I've finally got the time, I'm going to dive headfirst into this piece. This is the first long slow burn fanfiction I've really written, so I'm going to do my best to keep the grammar, characters, and plot smooth and consistent. Hope you enjoy!

“I know you don’t want to go back to school, but I really think it’s necessary, even if you already have careers laid out in front of you. I just hope you know not everyone gets those opportunities, and you’re very lucky-”

“Hermione, I know.”

“I don’t think you do, Ronald.”

“I promise I do,” Ron groaned. 

“Just come back to school with us,” Harry rolled his eyes, leaning back further into the couch.

“You both  _want_  to go back to school-”

“-and there’s a difference,” Hermione sighed, “yes, I understand this.”

“Ron, this will be the first year we won’t have to worry about dying on top of school work,” Harry said. 

“Why are you on her side?” Ron said, turning around to stare at Harry. “What’s with you and school all of a sudden?”

Harry turned bright red and lifted  _Quidditch Through the Ages_  in front of his face. 

“Well, I think Harry has an excellent point,” Hermione began again. 

“Hermione!”

“-but if you don’t want to go, I’m not going to make you,” Hermione finished. 

“I told you I don’t want to go!” Ron stopped and his eyes widened. “Wait, what?”

“I’m not going to tell you what to do. If you want to learn, then you’ll come to school. If you do not, then you won’t. Harry and I are going to go because it is each our own decisions. I think we’ve had enough decisions made for us these past couple of years. I think you should go, but I won’t make you.”

“Um, who are you and where is Hermione?” Ron gaped. 

“I still think you should go,” Hermione said, looking over at Ron. 

“There she is,” Ron shook his head and Harry laughed. 

"We're going to miss you, mate," Harry said, setting his book down on his lap. 

"You better," Ron looked seriously at Harry. "I don't even know what you're going to do without me there. You'll have to follow rules, and study, and basically live in the library, and also keep your clothes tidy, and-"

"Okay, Ron, I think we got it," Hermione rolled her eyes. "I'm a terrible and boring friend, and Harry's going to have an awful last year at Hogwarts because of me."

"You said it, not me," Ron said, holding up his hands. 

Harry shook his head while laughing. Hermione leaned over from where she was sitting on Ron's bed to shove Harry's shoulder. Harry fell off the edge of Ron's chair with a resounding thump. 

"Ow, Hermione!"

"You're fine," Hermione leaned back onto the assaulting orange of Ron's bedspread. She reached over to pull her school bag closer and started rummaging through it with occasional sounds of frustration. 

"So what are you going to be doing while we're at school?" Harry asked, pulling himself back up sourly to look at Ron. 

"I don't know," Ron shrugged. "I'm looking to travel to Romania a bit to go see Charlie, of course."

Harry nodded. 

"On the way back I'm going to visit Fleur and Bill," Ron said. 

"I'm sure you'll have a grand time there," Hermione said from behind her bag, the tips of her ears turning red. 

Ron got up and flopped over on his bed to lay next to Hermione. 

"Don't be ridiculous," he said. "You know I don't fancy Fleur anymore."

"Do I?" Hermione snorted. 

"You should. I fancy someone much lovelier, you know," Ron grinned. 

Hermione's ears turned even more red. "Wow, you _fancy_  someone lovelier. That's nice to know."

"Wha- Hermione?" Ron sat up as Hermione started stuffing books back into her bag harshly. 

"Especially considering you told me you loved me not three days ago!" Hermione huffed. "Guess that was just a whim for you, no?"

"Hermione!" Ron called as Hermione stomped out of the room in a flurry of bushy hair. 

"Bloody hell," Ron said. 

Ron sat back weakly on his bed, a defeated look on his face. Harry looked up from where he had been hiding behind  _Quidditch Through the Ages_ as if he had missed their entire argument. Ron shot Harry a look, and Harry shrugged. 

"I don't know what's been going on with her," Ron said. 

Harry didn't say anything in response. 

"I mean, she's been blowing up at the slightest flick these past weeks," Ron sighed. "I don't even know how to talk to her anymore. It's like she's always angry with me."

"Well, maybe she is," Harry said, rather unhelpfully. 

"Is she?" Ron stared at Harry. Harry shrugged. "Did she tell you something?"

"No, but she's not acting that way around me, so maybe something did happen. You should just ask her," Harry said. 

"I'm honestly scared to," Ron said. 

"Well, I'm not going to," Harry gave Ron a look. 

"Oh, come on, Harry," Ron pleaded. "Couldn't you just ask her if anything was wrong? Just as friends, not anything to do with me."

"No," Harry rolled his eyes. "She would know you had asked me to. Plus, she's your girlfriend! Just talk to her. I bet she'd like it better if you talked to anyways."

"When did you become such an expert on girls?" Ron asked, smiling. 

"Never," Harry grinned back. "Interesting enough, though, one of my best friends is a girl, so I've picked some things up."

"Oh," a look of realization came across Ron's face. 

"Just go talk to her," Harry said, picking up his book again. 

"Yeah, I'll go," Ron got up and walked to the door. "Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"You know if you want a different book to read, Hermione will give you one," Ron said pointedly. 

"I know," Harry said without looking up at Ron.

"Just wanted to say that."

"Okay," Harry said. "Go talk to her."

Ron nodded to himself and walked out of the door. 

As soon as Ron left, Harry set down his book and sighed. Ron was right. If he wanted to read something else, he could. And he knew Hermione would be ecstatic to help. She knew the things he liked, and she would undoubtedly know what he would like to read. He just couldn't bring himself to ask her, and he didn't even know why. There shouldn't be any reason why he wouldn't want to ask her. It wasn't that he couldn't stop reading  _Quidditch Through the Ages_. It was good. But not good enough to read twenty-seven times in a row and still be enjoyable. 

Harry groaned and threw the book onto Ron's bed. Soon enough he'd be at Hogwarts, and then he would be able to peruse the library until something jumped out at him. 

Harry pushed himself up and started walking down the winding stairs of the Burrow. When he passed Ginny's room, he leaned into the door, trying to hear if Hermione and Ron were talking in there. All he could hear was the indistinct murmur of voices, but it sounded similar to Ron and Hermione, so Harry smiled a little before continuing down the stairs. 

Mrs. Weasley was setting the table for dinner when Harry walked into the kitchen. 

"Oh, hello, dear," she said, smiling warmly at him. 

"Need any help?" Harry smiled back. 

"You're too kind," she said and handed him the silverware to put on the table. 

It wasn't long before the table was set, dinner was ready, and the Weasley family had settled in around the table. With Bill, Fleur, Charlie, and Percy all back to their lives, the table had considerably more room around it. Frankly, Harry found it to be odd in an uncomfortable way. But everyone was trying to settle back into their lives after the war, thus the missing faces. And then there was the gaping hole that Fred had left. That was the only hole that really mattered. The others were all well and rebuilding and would probably be around for brunch this Sunday, just as they always were. But Fred... Fred was gone. 

Harry swallowed harshly and looked back down at his plate while the Weasleys chattered around him. Even with the sadness and emptiness in the air, the Weasley table was as loud and hectic as ever. Harry felt on the outside of it all, the same he had been feeling since he had come to stay at the Weasleys after the Ministry had finished putting his face on every media surface imaginable. 

Harry shook his head, trying to clear out the haze of memories from right after the war had ended. It was almost the start of term, and then he would finally have other things to worry about.

"Alright there, Harry?" Mr. Weasley asked. 

Harry nodded without saying anything and looked up to meet George's eyes. He understood. Harry was the one who didn't understand. He had never had any siblings, much less a twin. And he didn't know what it was like to lose something like that. And yet, this was his adopted family. These were his brothers and sisters, and losing them felt like losing a sibling, even if he hadn't grown up with them his whole life. And it was all Harry's fault. Not just Fred's death, but all of the others who had died. He could have saved all of them if he had just gone to die sooner. If he had just stepped forward when Voldemort first asked for him. Maybe it wouldn't have made a difference. But it could have. 

Harry got up from the table without saying anything and went to wash his dish. The rest of the table went quiet when he got up, but no one said anything to him.

Harry didn't hear Ginny's footsteps approaching him over his furious scrubbing of his dish until she spoke. 

"You can use magic to do that," she said, stepping up to stand beside him. She smiled gently and put her hands over his. 

Harry looked down at her freckled hands over his dark ones for a moment before pulling away quickly. They hadn't talked about their relationship at all since the war. Harry didn't want to think about it, but Ginny obviously wanted to be with him. A sick feeling filled Harry's stomach at the thought of leaving her behind, but a sicker feeling filled him when he thought about kissing her again.

Ginny caught the plate in Harry's hand before it could fall and break, but she took her hands away. 

"I'm going to head up to bed," Harry said without looking at her.

She nodded and Harry could feel her eyes following his back all the way up the stairs until he was out of sight. 

Harry flopped over onto Ron's bed. It was all too much sometimes. Too many faces all the time. People trying to help him when they couldn't even help themselves. 

That was why Harry was even here in the first place. After the Battle of Hogwarts, he had wanted nothing more than to disappear into the Muggle world until everyone had forgotten his name. But Mrs. Weasley had pulled him with her after the Battle and taken him back to the Burrow without asking him. Harry supposed that was mothers were supposed to do: take care of their children even when they didn't want to be taken care of. Harry's mother was dead, though, and as much as he loved Mrs. Weasley and looked up to her as a motherly figure, she still wasn't his mother. The same way Sirius was never his father. 

So Harry had gone home with the Weasleys, and the guilt of what had happened to Fred had kept him here since then. 

Hermione had arrived only days after the Battle, looking for Ron. No, she hadn't wanted Harry. She had wanted to speak only to Ron. Harry still didn't know what they had said and done during those weeks. 

Then he had been sent to stay at the Ministry for two weeks while they interviewed him and walked him around like a peacock on a leash. 

And when he had come back, none of the Weasley brothers had time to talk to him, he had avoided Ginny, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were working too hard, and Ron and Hermione were missing in action. Subsequently, Harry had spent the majority of this summer alone. 

Harry rolled over onto his side. He was trying so hard to constantly act like nothing had changed. He had fought Voldemort before, had nearly died before, but then he had still been the same old Harry. But now that it was all over, he felt... different. He didn't feel like Harry anymore.

It was all he could do to act like everything was okay and to not completely shut down. 

Harry rolled over onto his other side and closed his eyes tightly, not bothering to take off his glasses. 

Just once, it would be nice to collapse into the oblivion of grief. 


	2. Harry

When Harry woke up, it was to darkness and the feeling of the wires of his glasses digging ruthlessly into his cheeks. Harry groaned and pushed himself off of where he had collapsed onto Ron's bed. Ron was flopped over on the armchair stuffed into the corner of his room. Shit. Harry was supposed to let Ron sleep on the bed tonight. Oh well. Harry picked up his wand from where it had been resting on Ron's side table and pointed it over at Ron. He paused. Harry closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. 

" _Wingardium leviosa,_ " Harry whispered to the quiet room, levitating Ron onto the bed where Harry had been laying. 

The warmth of the wand in Harry's hand was comforting and relaxing. Harry hadn't used it in so long, but coming back to it felt like coming back to a part of himself. Harry looked down at the worn wood before letting go of it and setting it back down onto the side table. Harry rubbed his face in his hands before getting up to pace around the cramped room. 

Having nothing else to do, Harry began to search for all of his belongings and stacked the few things he had in his rucksack. When Harry had left to hunt Horcruxes with only one bag, all of his other belongings had been lost to various locations. His old school things had been donated, thanks to Hermione. He had burned many of his more personal belongings to avoid being tracked. Any random items lying around that had once belonged to him had been lost to the chaos of the Burrow. Harry didn't mind much. He couldn't even really remember what all those things had been and what they had meant to him once. If he could barely remember them now, then it probably meant that their loss had not been significant enough for him to mourn them. Besides, they were only things. What really mattered was the people who were still living. And the ones who weren't.... Well, they were more than important enough for Harry to remember. 

The only thing missing now from Harry's rucksack was his wand. He stuffed it into a pocket without a second thought. 

It wasn't until Harry had his sack slung over his shoulder that he realized that he had been planning on leaving. A tiny voice screamed at him, telling him not to leave like this, not now. He would let everyone down. Even more than he had already let them down. And then what? Well, the Weasleys would officially hate him, no doubt about it. Hermione would be furious. He wouldn't get the chance to say goodbye to Ron before he went back to school. 

School. Hogwarts. 

That's where Harry wanted to be. 

That's where Harry should be. Before everyone else arrived there to taint the poisoned halls with their uncaring laughter. No one would remember all that had happened there last year and in May. It would just be a school again. Harry wanted to be able to be there, to say sorry, and to walk through the halls again before that happened. Besides, he had seen in the Prophet that McGonagall was trying to restore the school over the summer so that it would be ready for reopening in the fall. She hadn't asked for any help in the papers or personally, and Harry had just assumed that the other teachers would be helping. They most likely would be, but Harry could help too. And helping rebuild the castle would probably also help Harry come to terms with what had happened. Maybe that was too much to hope for, but it would at least be a shot. 

But after everything the Weasleys had done for him, it wouldn't be fair now to just leave like this in the middle of the night with no warning and no thanks. 

So Harry set down his sack at the end of Ron's bed and curled up in the armchair. It was almost morning, but the possibility of a few extra hours of sleep was irresistible, and Harry fell asleep quickly and restlessly.

 

"Why's your bag packed?" Ron's voice said accusingly. 

Harry blinked his eyes open in the early morning sunlight and glared up at Ron. 

"What?" he said blearily. 

"Why the bloody hell is your bag packed like you were ready to leave in the middle of the night?" Ron asked. 

Harry looked down. That was too close to the truth. 

"Just a middle of the night craze," Harry said quietly. 

"So you were going to leave?" 

"No!" Harry said. "I wasn't going to leave. I just..."

"You were going to leave," Ron folded his arms. 

"I just needed to feel in control of something," Harry said, glaring. 

"Fine, whatever you say," Ron said. "You know Hermione and I would understand if you did. But Mum wouldn't."

Ron walked out and slammed the door behind him. Harry rested his head on the back of the armchair and closed his eyes. The air around him felt stifled and closed off. Harry got ready quickly and escaped down into the kitchen as quickly as he could, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to make it look combed. When Harry entered the kitchen, Ron gave him a fierce look, but nodded slightly. Harry didn't know if that meant he was forgiven or if Ron was just giving some sign of gratitude that Harry hadn't actually run off. Either way, it made Harry's stomach feel sick and tilted. 

That's how Harry always felt these days. Tilted off his axis. 

"Harry, dear, what would you like for breakfast?" Mrs. Weasley welcomed him, as always. Harry ignored the sickness in his stomach, pushing it down with everything else. 

"Anything is fine. Thanks, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said with a small smile. 

"What's on your mind, dear?" she asked, ruffling his hair. 

"Actually I was wondering if I could go back to Hogwarts?" Harry blurted out before he could think about it. 

"I thought you were already going back," Mrs. Weasley said, bustling around the kitchen. 

"I was planning on going at the start of term with everyone else, but I think I'd like to go for the rest of the summer," Harry said. 

"Oh," Mrs. Weasley said. She didn't say anything, but a crestfallen look flashed across her face before she could turn around again. 

Ron was giving him a strange look, but Harry didn't look back or say anything to him. 

"I don't want to disappoint you, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said. "I love staying here and I've appreciated you taking me in after the war. And well, ever since we first met, I suppose."

Ron got up and left the room. This time Harry knew it wasn't because he was angry, but because he respected Harry's wish to have a conversation with his mum. Ginny walked in just as Ron was leaving, but he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her after him out of the room.

"It's just that I think I need to spend some time there before school starts," Harry said, turning back to Mrs. Weasley.

"I don't know if that's such a good idea," she said slowly. Harry waited for her to continue talking. "I like having you here."

Harry knew she meant that she liked having him here so she could keep an eye on him. 

"I think I need it to heal," Harry said, looking down at the table. "To help the teachers rebuild it, and to come to terms with everything that happened."

"I don't know..." Mrs. Weasley said uncertainly. 

"I just... didn't think I would ever get to go back again," Harry said. Maybe this was too much to tell Mrs. Weasley, but he wasn't going to say anything about that clearing in the forest explicitly. He just needed to show her how important it was that he get back to Hogwarts as soon as possible.

"Have you written to Minerva?" Mrs. Weasley asked. 

"Well, not yet," Harry hadn't even thought of that. 

"You need to write to her first," Mrs. Weasley said sternly. "But I understand why you need to go."

Harry grinned up at her.

"Even if I don't like it!" Mrs. Weasley pointed a spoon at him. 

"Thanks, Mrs. Weasley!" Harry got up and hugged her tightly. 

"Of course, dear," she said. "But you'll need to come for Sunday brunch every week, and I want regular owls on how you're doing."

Harry only smiled wider. "I wouldn't think of doing anything else."

Mrs. Weasley smiled tightly at him and gestured for him to sit down and eat. 

"You can go once Minerva has written back," she said. 

Harry shoved his food down hurriedly, again ignoring the sick feeling in his stomach, and ran upstairs to Ron's room to get started on his letter to McGonagall. 

He threw the door open to see Ron and Hermione making out passionately on his bed. 

"Oh Merlin!" Harry yelped and ran back out the door and down the steps. 

"Harry?" Ginny's voice came from his left, but Harry kept running down the stairs. 

"My eyes!" he groaned, clapping his hands over his face until he ran shin-first into the couch. His body flipped clumsily over it, banging his head against the living room coffee table and landing him on the floor.

"Merlin, what happened?" George asked, leaning over Harry. 

"Ron and Hermione," Harry muttered, not taking his hands away from his face. 

"Ah," George said, leaning back onto the couch. No remarks, no jibes, no teasing. Harry didn't much like this George, and he desperately needed to get away from his off-ness. 

It wasn't George's fault, it was Harry's. It was just getting harder and harder to look the Weasleys in the face after everything. Harry sighed, picked himself back up, and returned reluctantly to Ron's room. The door was still open and Ron and Hermione were clambering around the room embarrassingly, picking up random items of clothing and trying to shove them back on their bodies. Panic was already climbing up his throat.

Ron and Hermione left the room quickly, which was good. Harry didn't know what to say to them. The moment the door closed behind their blushing faces, Harry collapsed into the armchair, feeling like he was violating someone's life and space immensely. He fell asleep quickly. He did that a lot these days. Slept. It was his little escape. To sleep where no one could touch him anymore. Voldemort couldn't invade his head anymore, so it was his now. The only place that was his, and his alone.

Harry slept through the rest of the day and that night, waking up before the sun rose. 

Ron was back in his bed, and surprisingly, Hermione was too. They didn't much sleep in the same bed when they were at the Weasley's house, seeing as there was too high a risk someone would walk in on them. Apparently Harry didn't count as a someone. Harry didn't much feel like a someone anyways, so what did it matter?

He stayed awake until the house was bustling and busy, and pretended to be asleep when Hermione left Ron's room. 

"I know you're awake, Harry," Ron rolled his eyes. 

"Okay," Harry said without lifting up his head. 

"Aren't you going to say anything?" Ron asked. He sounded pissed off again. 

"Why would I?"

"We never talk anymore. All you say is 'okay' and 'sorry,'" Ron said. He was definitely pissed off. 

"It doesn't feel like there's much to talk about," Harry said, finally looking at Ron. 

"Harry, there is so much to talk about. How about all the things we used to talk about? How about all the things you avoid talking about? How about all the things we should be talking about?" Ron's voice rose alarmingly. 

Harry didn't respond. He didn't know how to talk anymore. It was too much work already to try to act like a normal person, much less talk like one too. It took so much energy for him to not collapse in on himself... If only he could explain to everyone how hard he was trying to hold this all together. 

"Look, you don't want to talk," Ron said in Harry's silence. "Fine. Have a good term at school."

Ron left. Harry assumed he went to go talk to Hermione. Or do other things. Well, they were good at that. All those things. Most importantly, being normal. Grieving, yeah, but still behaving like semblances of human beings. Harry wasn't so good at that. 

Weeks passed. Days and long hours of talking to no one but himself and occasionally Mrs. Weasley. Sometimes Harry found himself talking to Hedwig before realizing that just like everyone else, he had left her behind.

Harry received a letter from McGonagall saying he was welcome to come stay at Hogwarts whenever he needed to. It was a miracle Harry didn't take off that very second. But he stayed, trying to pull his things together, and trying to say goodbye to people without tipping them off that he was leaving. 

But after some time, it came to be as it had been the whole summer. Too much. Too many memories and too many guilty faces. It was time to go home.

 

Harry swallowed bile as he grabbed his things and left Ron's room. He looked around for Hedwig for a split moment before remembering. He turned away quickly, trying to push away the memories of toting a screeching owl around wherever he went. If Harry threw up now, he would fall to his knees and never get up, so he swallowed again and trekked through the door and down the stairs as quickly as he could.  

"Harry?" Ginny said from somewhere. It felt like Ginny was always saying his name. Asking him where he was. He didn't know, he didn't know. Harry swallowed again. 

His book. He had forgotten his book.  _Quidditch Through the Ages_. Oh well. There was other books where he was going. That book, too, if he wanted to read it again. 

He didn't say goodbye to any of the Weasleys except one. He owed it to all of them, but to her the most. Mrs. Weasley. 

She didn't ask when he hugged her tightly and whispered goodbye into her ear. She didn't smile, but she held him close and ruffled his hair. 

"I'll see you soon," Harry said quietly. "I'm sorry I can't stay here."

"I understand," she said. 

Harry walked out the door, into the pouring rain, and didn't look back. 

 

It took approximately five minutes for Harry to come to his senses. He had a wand. A wand that he could do magic with. He pulled it out with some difficulty and cursed himself and his attempt to escape dramatically in the rain when he was now shivering and would most likely wake up sick the next morning. He held onto his wand tightly, its warmth filling him up again. He closed his eyes tightly and pictured everything he loved about Hogwarts and what it felt like to be home. 

After a tight squeeze of Apparition, Harry opened his eyes to the quiet road through Hogsmeade. Right. Hogwarts would still have wards around it even in the summer. It would be stupid not to have the wards up year round. It was still sprinkling a bit here, so Harry still got to have his dramatic walk in the rain up to the castle. Seeing it again after the Battle of Hogwarts didn't feel like he expected it to. He had expected bad memories and the awful sickness that always climbed up his throat and into his mouth. And there was some of that, but there was also a surprising light. He could feel it opening up in his chest with hope and fire. Just a tiny flare of something under the numb pushing that had consumed Harry the past couple of months. He smiled a bit and trudged on until he had reached the front doors of the castle. The gates had opened easily under his touch, whether because McGonagall was expecting him or because the castle knew him, and the front doors opened similarly. 

The castle was quiet, but not eerie. It was peaceful and calm, and very obviously in progress. Even from where Harry was just walking in, there were several areas where fresh wood and stone were laid aside to restore scorches in the walls and doors. But it was nice, and the castle smelled fresh, and yet also, just the same as it always had. 

"Hello, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said warmly, emerging from the Great Hall with a wide smile on her face. 

Harry smiled politely back and reached forward to give her a cautious hug, one that she returned with surprising enthusiasm. 

"Good to see you in fair health," she said, gesturing for him to walk beside her. 

"I'm alright," Harry said. "How has the summer been?"

Was that something you were supposed to ask your teachers? Past teachers? Or wait, no, it was future teachers now. Too confusing. Harry swallowed down the taste of acid and focused on McGonagall's words. 

"-hard work, as you can see. But it's all coming together nicely, thanks to the collaboration and effort of the faculty and some other helpful hands."

"Oh?" Harry looked at McGonagall. "Helping hands?"

"You'll meet them soon enough," she smiled. 

Harry sighed and shook his head and McGonagall chuckled a little. 

"For now, you need rest," she said. Harry nodded. "There is ambiguous rooming on the fourth floor, but your old dorm is of course open if you would feel more comfortable there. Don't settle in too much, though. Eighth years will have their own space at the start of term."

Harry nodded again. "Of course. I'll just head for the fourth floor."

"Do you need any help transferring your other luggage?" she asked. 

"Er, no. This is all I've got," Harry said, lifting up his rucksack. 

"Oh, of course," McGonagall said, looking slightly taken aback. "You'll be looking for the last corridor, any of the doors on your right."

Harry thanked her and then headed off to go find his new room on the fourth floor. It was easy to find, and the room that he entered was warm and softly lit. Perfect. Harry flopped over onto the bed and turned his head into the soft pillows. Harry hadn't known this corridor had existed before, but he was glad it was here now. Hogwarts was like that in many ways. You never knew it's secrets until you needed them, and then they were there to be found. 

In any case, Harry was glad to finally be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any mistakes. I do my best without a beta. Thank you for reading, and I hope you stay tuned for future chapters!


	3. Harry

Waking up was disorientating, to say the least. 

The whole time Harry had gone to school at Hogwarts, he had lived in the same dorm. The same room with the same people every year. And now, he was in a different room with absolutely no one. In some ways, it was peaceful. Living with four other boys in close quarters could be extremely annoying. But in the same breath, Harry couldn't go back to stay in that dormitory. Not when no one else was there, and not when there was no school year in session. It would just be weird. 

But it still felt strange to wake up in this clean, blank space. 

It was possibly even weirder to walk into the Great Hall that morning to see not the four House tables, but dozens of smaller tables filling the room. Many of the teachers were eating and chattering amiably among the tables, along with some other faces. Some faces familiar, some not. 

Harry spotted Neville Longbottom settling down at a table across from someone and Harry walked over, glad to see a friend here. 

"Harry!" Neville exclaimed when he saw him. "It's good to see you!"

"You as well, Neville," Harry said with a small smile. 

"I didn't know you were coming," Neville said, reaching for a bowl of breakfast potatoes that had just appeared on the table in front of him. 

"Neither did I really," Harry said. He didn't reach for any food. 

"How have you been? Summer been okay?"

Harry had forgotten how truly overwhelming Neville's energy could be. 

"I'm alright. How have you been doing?" Harry said, doing his best to keep his energy light.

"Well, helping out here at Hogwarts has been so helpful, of course. Even Gran decided to come..." Neville continued on his chatter and it was then that Harry realized who was sitting across from Neville. 

Draco Malfoy.

His hair had grown out a little bit, flopping over his forehead and curling around his ears, but his face was just as pointy as ever and he was staring directly at Harry. His eyes were strangely thoughtful, and his mouth was turned down a bit at the corners, but he didn't look aggressive or even angry. 

Harry just stared back, shocked and surprisingly calm. No anger or biting acid climbed up his throat at the sight of Draco Malfoy. Just... lack of interest. 

"...but Draco and I have been talking. I mean, there's no one else here our age. It's really great to see you," Neville was saying. 

"That's great, Neville," Harry said absentmindedly, looking down at his empty plate and away from Malfoy's watching eyes. 

"I think today we're going to be working on the Quidditch pitch," Malfoy interrupted. Harry looked back up at him just as Neville laughed and rolled his eyes. 

"Just get straight to the point, eh Draco?" Neville said. 

"So you guys are friends?" Harry asked, looking between Neville and Malfoy. 

"I'm getting conversational whiplash," Neville said, sitting back in his chair. 

"I was just saying that the three of us are getting started on the Quidditch pitch today. I spoke to Professor McGonagall earlier this morning," Draco shrugged. 

"That sounds fine," Neville said. "And yes, Harry, I suppose you could call us friends."

Harry nodded slowly. 

"Too hard to believe?" Malfoy said, a slight sneer in his voice. 

"No," Harry looked straight at Malfoy, no emotion in his voice. "Just curiosity."

Malfoy's eyebrow raised slightly at Harry's response before his face returned to an expression of contemplation. 

Neville looked between Harry and Malfoy nervously. "Well, if you're both done with breakfast, we should head over to the pitch and get started. Last I heard, there's a lot to be done over there."

Harry nodded and followed when Malfoy and Neville stood to head to the pitch. The three of them walked to the pitch mostly in silence, with the occasional tidbit of commentary from Neville. It was strange to see Malfoy and Neville walking together as if they had been friends their whole life, rather than a bully and his victim. The feeling of sickness climbed up Harry's stomach, and he sighed in its familiarity. Harry thought that Malfoy heard him when his gaze flicked back to Harry for a moment, but it happened so fast that Harry was sure he had just imagined it. 

Saying that there was a lot that needed to be done for the Quidditch pitch was an understatement. It was absolutely destroyed. In fact, if Harry hadn't been so familiar with it, he likely wouldn't have recognized it as a pitch at all.

"It's terrible," Malfoy said quietly. Harry looked over at him. 

"It is," Harry said, still looking when Malfoy turned to stare at him with wide eyes. "We should get started on fixing it up."

The three of them began working in silence, wands out and warming up with the heat of intense magic. Neville seemed the most comfortable with the work, and Harry figured that he had stayed here since the Battle of Hogwarts. He knew that Malfoy had been in Azkaban for a month until he was cleared by the Wizengamot to return to the Wizarding World. Harry knew very little of what had happened during the trials after the war, as he had refused to show up for any of them, no matter how many times the Ministry had begged him to show. But Harry didn't want to speak, and he didn't want to watch people be sentenced to torture for the rest of their lives, no matter what they had done. Maybe they deserved it, but that didn't mean Harry had to witness it.

Malfoy seemed uncomfortable to be so near to Harry, but his magic was impeccable, just as it had been in school. Harry thought that if Hermione wasn't so obnoxious about her grades, Malfoy would have been at the top of their year. Not that it really mattered anymore.

Neville talked to Harry a little, and Neville talked to Malfoy a bit, but the three of them didn't talk, and Malfoy didn't say a word to Harry. The sickening acid in Harry had swelled up at the initial tension in the air, but after about an hour of levitating and stabilizing pieces of the pitch into a semblance of what it had looked like before the war, the sick calmed down and Harry relaxed into the magic sparkling around him. Neville's magic was stylized in its movement and the flourish of his wand. Malfoy's, in some ways similar to Hermione's, was textbook precise. His movements were sharp and his magic was neat. Harry's magic was sloppy in its casting, but firm enough in action. Harry thought it extremely interesting how all their magic interacted, and thought to go to the library later and see if there was any information on the differences between people's magic. 

By lunchtime, only a small portion of the Quidditch pitch had been done, and pieces of it were still missing, but it was a start. And if Harry was being honest, he thought it was actually a decent start. And after an awkward lunch where Malfoy and Neville talked enthusiastically with a professor Harry didn't recognize, they headed back to the Quidditch pitch to continue the remodeling. 

"I'm really glad you're here," Neville said on the walk back to the castle late at night.

Malfoy didn't respond, and so Harry assumed Neville had been talking to him. "Me too."

"You were staying with the Weasleys before, right?" Neville asked. 

Harry watched Malfoy carefully. "Yeah, after the Ministry was finished with me."

"It's ridiculous how they plastered you all over the papers like an animal." Harry was surprised to hear Malfoy speak. 

No one responded to him. 

 

Later, when Harry was in bed, he thought of how strange Malfoy's behavior had been that day. He still seemed inevitably himself, but with a hint of something else. Not softness exactly, but the air of someone who had been forgiven. It didn't make sense, but clearly him and Neville got along. This was remarkable, seeing how Malfoy had put Neville down in school. But if Neville could forgive Malfoy, then he must be worthy of forgiveness. 

Harry fell asleep quickly with thoughts of Malfoy's redemption. 

 

Harry didn't go to breakfast the next morning, and he didn't go to work on the Quidditch pitch either. He thought of how disappointed Neville would be, and if McGonagall would regret allowing him to stay at Hogwarts for the summer, but after a long night of fitful sleep, it was just too much to get out of bed and work. 

Harry lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling and wishing the sickness in his stomach would go away. It burned up his throat viciously, begging for release. His whole body ached. His head hurt, his hands felt as if they had been cut open by a thousand nails, and his muscles felt wrung out and stiff. When the feeling of vomit arose, Harry didn't even try to swallow it down. He simply leaned over the bed and threw up, his brain screaming at him to stop while his stomach heaved and turned inside out. 

He just couldn't stop it. Out of control of his own body, and out of control of how he moved. Numbness filtered in and out of Harry and he cried. 

The crying started softly, and Harry tried to stifle it. Don't be seen, don't be heard. But before long, he was full on sobbing, his body lifting from where he lay face up on the bed from the effort of expelling emotion and hurt from his body. 

Around lunchtime, there was a soft knock on the door. Harry was lying limply in sweaty, tangled sheets, the mess of his morning suffocating the room. Dark curls stuck to his neck and forehead, and his puffy eyes were barely open in slits. 

The door opened slightly and white blonde hair peeked in. 

Malfoy's face wrinkled when he took in Harry's room, but he didn't say anything. He just stepped in and pulled out his wand carefully. Harry watched him numbly from the same position, unable to move. Unable to do anything but watch. He didn't say a thing while Malfoy lifted his wand and cautiously cleaned up Harry's room with magic. Malfoy didn't move from where he stood in the doorway, he just held his hands up in front of him, his wand in his left and his right held up in the air. The magic purged over Harry like a wave of warm water, cleaning and relaxing him. Malfoy never directly pointed his wand at Harry. It was nice, Harry thought. Especially since Hermione would most likely have never considered something like that, and would have pointed her wand around the room without a second thought. But Malfoy just closed his eyes and held his hands out in front of him as if he was waiting for someone to catch him right before he fell. 

When he finished, he opened his eyes slowly and stared at Harry. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and stepped out, closing the door silently behind him.

Harry lay there in silence, still staring up at the ceiling of his room. Harry had never known that Malfoy was capable of such quietness, and such thoughtfulness. It was so human of him. 

With that thought, he fell asleep. And this time, thankfully, his rest was not fitful. 

 

Waking up in this room was just as disorientating as the first time. But he felt rested and peaceful. 

He needed to thank Malfoy. 

That was Harry's first thought as soon as he had wiped the sleep out of his eyes. Past Harry would have scoffed and taunted anyone who had the intention to thank Malfoy for anything. And yet here he was, with really no sick feelings in his stomach at the thought of thanking him. Okay, well that was alright. 

Harry showered and changed slowly, enjoying the feeling of not having anywhere to be at a certain time. According to his  _tempus_ charm, it was about 5 at night, and so there was no point in going to work on refurbishing the castle. So once he was somewhat presentable, Harry left his room and went wandering around the castle. 

The walls were as stony as he had always remembered, but full corridors were scorched to charcoal black, and in many places floors and staircases had collapsed. Lookinh at it pulled at him. Something at his center urged to reach out a hand and help, even id he could barely pull himself up.

Harry pulled out his wand reluctantly, and as always, its warmth was kind and the grip was familiar. He lifted it and he pictured his intent, and pieces of the staircase came back together, and the long scorch marks across several paintings receded until they were nothing but memories. Harry sat in front of one set of staircases for nearly two hours before he was finished reconstructing it. The sound of the grinding stone and wood rejoining completely masked the footsteps and breathing that joined Harry. But after a whole life of trying to avoid being sneaked up on, it took only several seconds to realize that another person was in his presence. 

Malfoy, of course. Who else would it be?

"I was just going to go looking for you," Harry said, lowering his wand.

"Really?" Malfoy asked, taking a seat next to Harry without hesitating. 

"Yeah."

"And?"

Harry smiled a little. "Thank you. For earlier."

"I'm sorry for barging in on you like that," Malfoy said. 

"I appreciate it actually," Harry said, setting his wand down in front of his feet. 

"I don't know why," Malfoy said, snorting. 

"Because someone actually cared to check up on me," Harry said, looking over at Malfoy. 

"As if people aren't checking in on you every second of the day, Potter," Malfoy scoffed. 

"No," Harry said seriously. "No one checks in on me."

Malfoy looks over, that expression of thought crossing his face again. It was starting to become infuriating.

"You're welcome then, I suppose," Malfoy said. Harry nodded in response. "Do you get sick like that...often?"

Harry shook his head. No matter how often he felt sick and close to collapse, it was very rare that he caved into it. 

"The day before was hard," Harry said, as if that provided some sort of explanation.

"You don't use your magic much, do you?" Malfoy asked abruptly. 

"Why do you ask?" Harry said, his back straightening. He didn't want anyone to know the horror that crept up in him when he needed to use magic. It didn't matter if other people used it around him, but the thought of having such power in his hands.... well, it sickened him.

"I could just tell by the look on your face when you were holding your wand," Malfoy said. 

"No one would be able to recognize that unless they knew what it felt like," Harry scuffed his feet on the floor. 

"Yeah, well..." Malfoy trailed off. 

"Oh," Harry mentally slapped himself. "Sorry."

"I should head to bed," Malfoy said after a long moment. 

Harry shrugged, still kicking himself for saying something so stupid. He had slept most of the day, and had practically no desire to go spend another 24 hours in his room. 

"I think I'll take a walk," Harry said absently. 

"Okay," Malfoy said, and stood up. "Night."

"Okay," Harry looked back down as Malfoy walked away. "Good night."

Harry watched Malfoy's back until he had completely disappeared around the corner before standing to dust himself off. Harry turned to look at his handiwork of the last couple hours. The stairs were a little rougher than they had once been, and maybe the corners of the walls needed to be rounded a bit more, but overall it wasn't a terrible job. And Harry was happy that he had actually been able to do something to help. At least it was for good. 

Even if it meant he had had to use magic. 


	4. Harry

A gentle breeze swept over the grounds of Hogwarts, swaying the Forbidden Forest. Red orange sunlight glossed over the Great Lake and Harry sighed and dug his feet further into the grass at the edge of the water. Summer was almost over, and it was clear in the slight chill in the wind that lifted Harry's hair away from his face. Harry looked down at his feet and inhaled deeply again. 

With each day of work that had passed, Harry had felt lighter and lighter, happy with the work and results that had gone into the fixing of Hogwarts. But with the start of term only one week away, the dreaded sick had started climbing back up through Harry. He considered, not for the first time, not going back to school again. The summer at Hogwarts had gone well, but another whole school year felt impossible. He had already bought his school supplies though, so there was no point in not going back. And where would he go? The Ministry had taken over Grimmauld Place as a historical home and significant piece in the war, he couldn't go back to the Weasley's, and he had no inclination to go to Diagon Alley to pull money out of his Gringott's account to get his own place. Too much publicity followed him there.

Despite that, he still wasn't looking forward to all the students that would come with the school year.

He already missed the labor of redoing the castle. It had started off slow, but then the hours had passed, and then days, and then weeks. Both Neville and Malfoy could be annoying, but being able to do something that would actually contribute to recovering from the war made it worth it. Besides, they weren't all bad. Especially not Neville, but even Malfoy was decent. Neville was so purely good, and his presence was calming and healthy. He cared, Harry thought, but he never asked questions when he knew they weren't wanted. He didn't make a fuss over things that had already happened, or that couldn't be fixed, and he welcomed everyone he met with a smile. And Malfoy, well he was something else. The arrogant git was the same as ever, and yet, nothing like he once was. He made the same old sarcastic comments, but now there was no hatred behind his words. It was like someone had taken Malfoy just as he was and filled him with something other than judgement and jealousy. And surprisingly, Harry didn't mind him. The two of them were nothing close to friends, of course. But they didn't seem so much like enemies anymore.

Harry flopped back onto the grass and stared into the tree above him. He knew, as soon as school started, everything good that had been built in the past weeks would dissipate. Nothing good ever lasted, and there were too many other things to consider with school. Neville would most likely return to hanging out with Luna, Ginny close behind. And where Ginny was involved... well, it was best Harry stayed clear. He had ignored all the letters she had sent him since coming back to Hogwarts. And Malfoy had his own friends. They had never mixed well before, so why should a couple weeks in forced quarters change anything. Malfoy had done a nice thing for him, sure. He had helped Harry when he had gotten sick, and the conversation after that had been alright. But other than that, they hadn't interacted at all unless Neville was there, making conversation for the two of them. 

It was eating at Harry. That night. Malfoy had asked if Harry used his magic very much. He had used it significantly more to help rebuild Hogwarts, but he still avoided it whenever he could. It made Harry uncomfortable that Malfoy would notice something like that, and made him wonder why he had brought it up. Surely, it wasn't important enough to be brought up in a conversation. Unless it was. It just didn't make sense. But since then, Malfoy had avoided any one-on-one interactions with Harry. It suited Harry just fine, but it was unnerving all the same. 

The Great Hall was as cheerful as ever when Harry walked in for dinner later, looking for Neville and Malfoy. It didn't take long for him to spot the two at a table, Neville chattering excitedly, and Malfoy looking exhausted and drawn. 

"Hullo," Harry said when he sat down at their table. 

"Evening, Harry!" Neville said, scooting aside to make room for him. 

Malfoy nodded to him, and Harry nodded back, not breaking eye contact. 

"You two are so odd," Neville rolled his eyes at Harry and Malfoy. 

"We try," Harry said, and Malfoy smirked a little. "Ready for school?"

"Ready enough," Neville said, forking potatoes into his mouth in a gesture that reminded Harry of Ron. It had been awhile since Harry had really thought of Ron. 

He had loosely kept in touch with Hermione while he had been at Hogwarts, but there had been no contact whatsoever from Ron. To be honest, though, Harry hadn't tried to reach out to him either. 

"I ordered everything by owl, but I'm thinking I might make a trip to Diagon just for old time's sake," Neville said, smiling at Harry. 

"I ordered as well," Malfoy said without looking up. 

"As did I," Harry said. "But I definitely won't be making a trip to Diagon Alley."

"Me neither," Malfoy said. Harry glanced up to catch his gaze, maybe in understanding, but Malfoy didn't look up from where he was picking at his food.

After that, dinner was fairly quiet. Harry sat in miserable silence, picking at roast chicken, Neville ate happily, and Malfoy ate nothing at all. 

"Alright, I'm heading to bed," Neville said, standing up. "Lively dinner tonight, eh?"

Harry smiled at Neville as he left, but Malfoy still didn't look up. 

"I should head up as well," Malfoy said, barely five minutes after Neville had left. 

"Are you avoiding me?" Harry asked abruptly. 

"Avoiding you?" Malfoy looked surprised. "Why would I avoid you?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "I have no idea, Malfoy."

Malfoy sat back down slowly from where he had been half out of his seat. "Alright, no need for the drama."

"How are you?" Harry asked, folding his hands on the table. 

"Did you really just ask me how I am right now?" Malfoy glared across the table at Harry. 

"Why not?" Harry shrugged. "I always wish people would just ask me how I am. Don't you?"

Malfoy's glare slowly slid off his face. "I suppose, yes."

"So?"

"I'm fine," Malfoy said. Harry gave him a hard look, but he didn't say anything else. 

"Do you think we can put this all behind us?" Harry leaned back after a long moment. 

Malfoy's brow furrowed in confusion. "Put what behind us? This summer?"

"No," Harry said. "I mean us. Do you think we can put all of our school hate behind us?"

Malfoy looked at Harry, his face blank. 

"And just be civil?" Harry prompted. He didn't know how much he was hoping the answer would be yes until he finally asked the question. Now, it was down to Malfoy. 

"No," Malfoy said. 

Harry froze. "What?"

"We can't put it behind us. You're Potter, I'm Malfoy. Don't forget it," Malfoy said blankly, then stood and left. 

Harry was left sitting by himself at the table with a stunned expression on his face. He had been so sure Malfoy would say yes, that they could move on from what had happened before the war. He had said no. Harry sat and stared at the table until all the food and plates had disappeared and the teachers had returned to his quarters. He sat in the Great Hall until the candles were burned down so low, they might as well not have been lit at all. 

Suddenly, the summer didn't seem so nice anymore. It would be good for term to start. Harry really couldn't wait to see Hermione again. 

 

"Harry!" Hermione's voice came to Harry brightly as she ran forward to hug him tightly. She was already in her robes, prepared as always. Harry was still wearing jeans and a hoodie. "How was the rest of your summer? I mean, I read your letters, of course, but I've missed you so much."

Harry smiled at her, still hugging her as they walked side by side. The physical contact felt a little off, but not entirely bad. That was progress. 

"Summer was good. I'm glad school's starting again," Harry said. 

"I never thought I'd see the day when you looked forward to school," Hermione hugged Harry close. 

The two walked through the doors of Hogwarts together, Hermione beaming and looking around wide eyed. 

"It looks so new," she gasped as they walked through the corridors. 

"Right," Harry slowly edged out of her arms, the close contact beginning to close in on him.

"Oh, Harry, you look so much better since the last time I saw you," Hermione sighed. 

"How do you mean?" Harry gave her a funny look. He felt mostly the same. 

"You let me hug you, first of all. And you don't look quite so unwell," Hermione said. 

"I guess that's good," Harry said. 

"I think so. Don't you?"

"Sure. It was nice to help out," Harry said, looking around as they entered the Great Hall. 

"The summer's done you good," Hermione stopped in the doors. "Oh! Look at the tables!"

Harry smiled, really smiled, at the round tables cluttered into the Great Hall. "It's amazing, isn't it?"

"I love it!" Hermione said happily, pulling him forward into the dining hall. 

"Where do you want to sit?" Harry asked as Hermione pulled him around the Hall. 

"How about over here?" Hermione said, pointing towards a table hidden in a corner. 

There were two people sitting at that table. Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson. Parkinson was chatting contentedly, but Malfoy was looking down at this plate just as he had been a week ago at dinner. 

"Oh, er, I really don't think that's a good idea," Harry said, digging his heels into the ground while Hermione started to pull him along. 

"Oh, come on, Harry, we really need to get going on the inter-House unity. Plus, I thought you said Malfoy wasn't so bad anymore," Hermione said. 

"Yes, well," Harry had no idea how to explain this before Hermione reached the table. It was a lost cause. 

"Come  _on_ , Harry," Hermione rolled her eyes, finally succeeding in pulling him over to the table. 

When they stopped in front of the little table, Parkinson looked up at them, first as a glance, and then back with wide eyes. She swatted at Malfoy without looking away from them, but when Malfoy made eye contact with Harry, he quickly looked down again. 

"To what do we owe the pleasure?" Parkinson smiled widely, much in a manner similar to a smug cat. 

"Mind if we sit here?" Hermione said, still clutching on rather tightly to Harry's arm. 

Parkinson looked over to Malfoy, but when he didn't respond to her attempts to get his attention, she just rolled her eyes and gestured for them to sit. 

"I don't mind," she said, exhaustion creeping through her drawl. "Can't speak for Draco here, though."

Harry looked to Malfoy at the mention of his name. It was strange for Harry to hear someone call Malfoy Draco. He had just always been Malfoy, to the point where it hadn't really occurred to Harry that Malfoy wasn't actually his given name. 

Hermione laughed nervously at Parkinson's comment, and Parkinson gave her a sly, but slightly pleased, look. 

"So how was your summer?" Hermione asked cautiously. 

Parkinson laughed obnoxiously, then stopped abruptly when she realized Harry's and Hermione's faces were blank. 

"Was it something I said?" Hermione asked. Harry had never seen her more nervous. 

"No! Sorry," Parkinson said. "I forget. Heroes of the Wizarding World in front of me."

Hermione looked, if possible, even more uncomfortable. 

"No need to call me a hero," Harry interjected, speaking for the first time. 

"Uh, well, you're  _the_ hero," Parkinson stared at him. 

Harry shrugged. "Doesn't feel like that when you're coming out of a war at seventeen years old, thinking you should be dead."

Parkinson's unnerving stare melted into something thoughtful. It reminded Harry, inexplicably, of how Malfoy had looked at him when he had first arrived at Hogwarts over the summer. Both Parkinson and Malfoy had the talent to make you feel like both a disappointment and as if you were something intensely interesting when they looked at you. 

"And you're one out of the three heroes," Parkinson said to Hermione. 

Hermione laughed, the sound a little less nervous. "One out of the three heroes."

"Well, yeah, but like  _the three heroes_ ," Pansy said, flattening her hands out on the table. 

"Pansy, stop emphasizing every word you say," Malfoy said suddenly before standing and striding moodily out of the Great Hall. Whispers and snickers followed him out, but his shoulders stayed straight and he never turned around. Pansy just sighed as soon as he was out of sight. 

"So, your summer?" Hermione said to Parkinson. 

"It was fine," Parkinson said, but her earlier playfulness had disappeared. 

 

"I know you said Malfoy was alright, but I really didn't believe it could be true until we talked to Parkinson tonight," Hermione said as they made their way up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower. 

"He was alright, up until about a week ago," Harry muttered. 

"What happened a week ago?" Hermione asked, always picking up on everything. 

"I don't even really know," Harry shook his head. "It was like the whole summer had never existed. He acted like we had never stopped being enemies. But I thought we had. Stopped, I mean."

"Maybe he thought you never had," Hermione suggested. She pulled her hair up from her neck and begin to loosely braid it as they walked up the stairs. 

"I dunno," Harry said. "We had been perfectly civil, and then we just weren't. Now he won't even look at me."

"From what I saw," Hermione said, "he won't look at anyone. Don't single yourself out."

"It's still so weird. Do you think-"

"Harry, if you ask me if I think he's up to anything, I swear I will jinx you off the edge of these stairs," Hermione said threateningly. 

"Oh, hush, Hermione," Harry lightly shoved her shoulder. "I was going to ask if you thought he was alright."

"Well!" Hermione looked at him with interest. "The Malfoy obsession sure has taken a new turn."

"Malfoy obsession?"

"You two do not belong up here!" a high voice twittered. 

Harry and Hermione looked up in alarm at where the Fat Lady was waving her arms wildly. 

"There's a new eighth year area," she said, waving her finger at them. 

"Would you mind letting us know where it is?" Hermione asked politely. 

"Well, to be honest, I'm not quite sure," the Fat Lady said slowly. "I remember Professor McGonagall mentioning the East Wing, but I just can't say."

"Let's start there," Harry said tiredly. He had forgotten that the eighth years would no longer be rooming with the rest of their House. 

When Harry and Hermione arrived in the East Wing, all they had to do was follow the straggling eighth years making their way through the corridors, and from there, it was easy to find their way. The East Wing had been added just this summer with a space for the eighth years, more spacious classrooms, and an expansive memorial for those who had died in both the First and Second Wizarding War. Harry had helped build the frame for the space, but he had not yet seen it completed. Nor had he seen the memorial. 

He caught a glimpse of the white marble as Hermione and he walked, but she marched him away quickly with a concerned look before he could stop and stare at it. 

"Another day, Harry," she had said. 

Harry hadn't argued with her. It was late, he was tired, and nausea was beginning to climb up the back of his throat. 

Climbing into the eighth year common room was like climbing into a mosh pit of too many colors trying to compete for all the attention. McGonagall was good at many things, but decorating for four Houses in one room was not one of them. 

Frankly though, Harry was much too tired to care. He was tired, he was sick, and he wanted to be somewhere safe. 

Safe. He had wanted safe from day one. He had never gotten safe, he had never deserved safe. Not even now, after the war had ended. It was still a new place, people he was supposed to know who acted strangely, a new life. Something about it was hopeful. 

But something about it also made Harry sick. 


	5. Harry

"Where do Vanished objects go?" Professor McGonagall asked the class for the third time in a row. "I'm sure you all know this is a question that has been debated by witches and wizards for centuries. Since the Vanishing spell itself was created."

Harry stared down at his desk. Professor McGonagall had been going on about philosophical questions of the wizarding world for far too long. Harry thought they should just carry on and introduce a new class called Magical Philosophy. It sounded like something Dumbledore would have wanted to teach, if only to wave his finger in the air and tell his students,  _excellent question, my boy, excellent question_.  Harry swallowed hard. 

Pansy Parkinson snorted quietly behind him and Harry risked a glance backwards when McGonagall was turned around. Hermione was whispering something to Parkinson, and the two of them were giggling like mad, not even checking to see if McGonagall was paying attention or not. She wasn't, but even so. A much expected wave of jealousy waved over Harry. Hermione was kind, brilliant, and passionate and even Parkinson could see that. And apparently Hermione saw something in Parkinson that she wanted to be friends with. Enough so that she no longer wanted to sit next to or talk to Harry, instead opting for her newer friend. It was fair, Harry thought, he had always been something of a hindrance anyways. Hermione deserved friends that weren't constantly getting themselves and her nearly killed. 

Harry turned back to look down at his desk before either Hermione or Parkinson noticed him looking. They were too busy laughing and whispering to do more than blush and giggle when McGonagall called them out and gave them both detention. Harry was surprised Hermione wasn't having a seizure this very moment at the mere notion of detention. Instead, she was shoving Parkinson playfully before turning to listen to McGonagall before she got into more trouble. 

The rest of the classes for that day passed similarly, with Hermione and Parkinson cautiously enjoying each other's company, although Hermione didn't receive any more detentions. By the time dinner rolled around, Harry was so tired of the two that he skipped dinner completely and went straight up to the eighth year dormitories. There, at least, it was mostly quiet. 

Harry nodded to Dean, Seamus, and Justin Finch-Fetchley while passing through their new common room before climbing a small set of stairs to collapse on his bed. He felt utterly friendless. He had yet to reach out to Ron, although he was hoping Ron would realize his mistake and reach out to Harry. Preferably with an apology for not understanding why Harry couldn't heal like the rest of them. Harry missed Neville. He was an easy presence, and Harry was surprised to realize how much he had grown to like him over the summer. Harry was even beginning to miss Malfoy's awkward presence. 

Harry sighed and shook his head, pressing his face deeper into his pillow. He wished he could say that he missed how things had been before the war ended, but that wasn't true. Things with his friends, and with Ginny, had felt right back then. Now, when everything should be right, it all felt wrong. Sometimes Harry wondered what would have happened if he had chosen to move on with Dumbledore in the strange King's Cross in his head. The King's Cross he had found himself in after he should have been killed, again. 

It was all thinking of the past, though. 

 

It wasn't until the next morning at breakfast that Harry realized that he hadn't seen Malfoy around much since the school year had started. It took much longer than it should have for Harry to realize this, seeing as he now had an excessive amount of time to people watch and sit with his own thoughts. And yet, here he was, several weeks into the school year, realizing that Draco Malfoy had yet to be seen outside of any of his classes. It was as if he simply Apparated from one class to another, never stepping foot anywhere else, not even the Great Hall for meals. 

"Thinking about something, Harry?" Hermione pulled him away from his thoughts.

"Malfoy, actually," Harry said absentmindedly, still looking over at the Slytherin table. He took a sip of his pumpkin juice, relishing in the taste happily. 

"Really?" Parkinson said with interest, elbowing Hermione excitedly. Harry had forgotten she was here. 

Hermione rolled her eyes. "No surprises there. Harry has been talking non stop about Malfoy since fifth year."

Parkinson leaned forward. "Are you serious?"

"Please," Hermione laughed. "Harry's practically obsessed with him."

"Hermione!" Harry grumbled. "I'm not obsessed! And I barely ever talk about Malfoy."

Hermione gave him a look from across the table. "Harry, honestly."

"And even if I did, did you really need to tell that to his best friend?" Harry jerked his head towards Parkinson without looking at her. 

"Don't get your wand in a knot, Potter," Parkinson said disdainfully. "I wouldn't tell Draco even if he were in the condition to hear it. People have a right to their lives."

Harry snorted. "That's interesting coming from you, Parkinson."

"Harry," Hermione said, a warning clear in her voice. 

"People don't judge your mistakes from the war," Parkinson sneered. "Don't judge mine."

Harry glared at her before she spoke again, her animosity misting away quickly. Harry couldn't remember the last time he had gotten so heated about something, but the red was fading away quickly, replaced by standard exhaustion.

"I only asked because the experience sounds oddly similar to my own with Draco," Parkinson said. 

"I thought you said people deserved a right to their lives," Harry said. She sent him a withering look. 

"Mutual obsession," Hermione said jokingly, apparently not noticing the tension between Harry and Parkinson. 

"Indeed," Pansy said thoughtfully. 

 

And mutual obsession it was. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the very short update. I'm changing the POV in the next piece, so I needed a way to break it up. This story will remain primarily in Harry's POV, with the occasional glimpse from other characters.


	6. Hermione

"I can't believe Potter's been obsessed with Draco this whole time!" Pansy whispered excitedly. 

Hermione rolled her eyes and lightly shoved Pansy. "It was only since fifth year, and it's not exactly like it was a good obsession."

The odd pair were striding down the corridor after class, keeping their voices hushed to avoid unwelcome listeners. Pansy's short black hair swung into Hermione's face every now and then as she leaned forward to whisper something. Her hair smelled lightly of vanilla, Hermione noted. A pleasant, surprisingly warm scent. 

"Still," Pansy said. 

"No," Hermione said quietly, stopping in the middle of the corridor. "I shouldn't have said anything. About Harry, I mean."

"I shouldn't have said anything about Draco," Pansy said, looking down and continuing to walk. 

They walked in silence for a moment before Pansy spoke again. 

"It's just, don't you think we could help them?" Pansy's voice was quiet, but there was an undertone of anticipation to it. 

"Help them?" Hermione stopped again and Pansy rolled her eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Granger, for someone who's so smart, this is taking you an unnecessarily long time to figure out."

Hermione folded her arms across her chest and glared. "Figure out what?"

"Draco's fancied Potter since second year," Pansy said, mirroring Hermione's stance. 

"I thought you said that people deserved a right to their own lives," Hermione raised an eyebrow. 

"Yes, I did. But Draco's my friend, and if there's a way that I can help him then I will," Pansy shifted her weight to the other hip. "And besides, you're my friend too, yes?"

Hermione hesitated. "Yes."

"So I can trust you, as a friend, to help my other friend," Pansy said. 

"Yes, I suppose you can."

"Lovely, now tell me about Potter." Pansy grabbed Hermione's hand and dragged her forward. 

Hermione sighed and stumbled after Pansy. "He's been crazy about Malfoy basically since he got to Hogwarts. He was always angry with him, but truthfully, I don't think Harry ever really hated him. I mean, what eleven year old could really hate someone that much?"

Pansy laughed, and Hermione looked over, surprised and pleased at the sound. 

"And then, this summer, Harry came here to help rebuild Hogwarts. He said he just wanted to help out, but I think he needed an escape from all of the people and clamor. I don't blame him," Hermione shrugged. "Almost as soon as he arrived, I started receiving letters about Malfoy this, and Malfoy that. On and on. Things he said or did, how confused Harry was that he wasn't being a right prat."

"Funnily enough, Draco sent me a note as soon as Potter arrived," Pansy grinned. "All he said was, 'Potter's here, prepare my funeral.'"

Hermione laughed as they approached the door to the eighth year common room. "So what are we going to do?"

"About the two of them?" Pansy asked. 

"Yes," Hermione said. "We need to get them to be friends at least. They were getting along fairly well over the summer, I think."

"If you mean not punching each other into the ground, then yes, I suppose they were getting along," Pansy said before giving the password to the common room. " _Hero._ "

"McGonagall is terrible with passwords," Hermione sighed. "And Harry said he thought it was going alright between the two of them. He didn't say they were friends, of course, but I thought they were being civil."

"Civil enough," Pansy said. "Draco also happened to be avoiding any personal interaction with him."

" _Personal_ _interaction_?"Hermione snorted. 

"Oh, you know! One on one conversation!"

"Right, right," Hermione stifled a giggle. "So we need to get them to be friends."

"Exactly," Pansy said happily. "Then, think about it. Our friendship will be easier."

"True," Hermione said. 

"Inter house unity," Pansy continued. 

"I doubt we need more of that," Hermione muttered. 

"And we won't have to deal with the two of them ranting about each other all hours of the day," Pansy finished. 

"Now that is a deal breaker," Hermione said. "So what's the plan?"

"I may have an idea," Pansy smiled.

 

 

"Harry!" Hermione called across the Charms classroom. She had been sitting with Pansy again. "Do you have a moment?"

Harry looked up from stuffing his books into his bag and sighed. "Yeah."

"What's wrong?" Hermione said as she approached him. 

"Nothing, 'Mione, I'm fine," Harry said tiredly, slinging his bag over his shoulder. 

"Listen," Hermione said, grabbing his arm and guiding him out of the classroom. "I've had this idea-"

"If this is about study schedules again, Hermione, I've already written one."

Hermione gasped. "Have you really?"

"No," Harry deadpanned. Hermione rolled her eyes. "But I did write down the homework I have to do so I won't forget it."

"That's a start at least," Hermione said. "But that isn't what I wanted to talk about."

"What is it then?" Harry rubbed a hand across his face and Hermione paused. 

"Are you feeling alright, Harry?"

"I'm just tired that's all," he said. 

"Alright then."

The two walked in silence to the Great Hall for lunch, their footsteps only punctuated by Harry's occasional yawning. 

"What is it that you wanted to talk about?" Harry said as they approached a table. 

"It's just, I know you haven't been doing well," Hermione began, "after the war, I mean."

"I'm fine," Harry said shortly. 

"You say that," Hermione sat down at the table next to Harry, "but I don't think you really are fine."

"Hermione-"

"I was talking to Pansy, and we thought-" Hermione said. 

"You were talking to Pansy," Harry said flatly. "And what does she say you should do about me?"

"No, Harry, it's not like that," Hermione said, trying to back up her words. "It's just a thought I had while I was talking to her."

"Right, so what does she want to do to fix me?" Harry said sarcastically. 

"Well, we thought maybe you would want to talk to someone about everything that's happened to you-" 

"That's not your decision to make, Hermione," Harry stood up from the table. "And it's not your business to go around telling Pansy Parkinson what you think about me."

"Harry-" Hermione started, but before she could get any further, Harry turned on his heel and stormed out of the Great Hall, a myriad of whispers following his back. 

"So that went well," Pansy's voice sounded behind her as she plopped her bag down on the table.

"As you can see," Hermione put her face in her hands. 

"Did you even get to tell him the plan?" Pansy asked, sitting down in Harry's place. 

"No, all I had to do was mention I was talking to you and he shut down."

"Ah, rookie mistake, Granger," Pansy dropped a sandwich down on her plate. 

"Hmph." Hermione huffed. "Well did you talk to Malfoy then?"

"I did, actually," Pansy said smugly. 

"And what did he say?"

"Absolutely not," Pansy's shoulders slumped. "How in Merlin's name are we going to do this?"

Hermione dropped her head onto the table in frustration. "No idea."

 

"Harry?" Hermione asked later, tapping his shoulder lightly over a couch armrest.

"Yes?" Harry didn't look up from where he was settled in the common room with a book propped up on his chest. 

"I'm sorry about earlier," Hermione said quietly. 

"There's nothing to be sorry for." Harry still didn't look up. 

"I shouldn't have pushed like that," Hermione said timidly, coming around to stand in front of the couch. 

"I shouldn't have gotten angry before you even explained whatever it is you were talking to Parkinson about," Harry said, sticking a finger in his book to mark his place and setting it down. 

"No, you shouldn't have," Hermione sat down on the edge of the couch. "But I understand why you did."

Harry shrugged and pushed his body up to a sitting position. His shoulders were slumped and everything in his posture screamed of defeat. His glasses slipped down his nose and his skin was lit up by the dark glow of the fireplace. The warm light suited him, but it also highlighted all the shadows and hollows of his face and body, all the places where the war had torn pieces of him away. 

"Listen, Harry," Hermione said, scooting closer. 

"I'm listening." Harry didn't look away from the fire. 

"I don't know what's going on with you. No one really does," Hermione said. "But just because I don't know what's wrong, doesn't mean I can't see that there's  _something_ wrong."

"What isn't wrong?" Harry asked. 

Hermione shook her head. "Everything should be right. We won the War, we're happy, everything's okay now. You don't have to watch your back anymore, you don't have to survive anymore. Harry, you get to live."

"I can't," Harry's voice dropped. Hermione had never seen him so beaten down in her life, not once since she had met him. Harry had always been the ball of fire, determined and brave, hot tempered and bright. She had never seen him as he was now. Gray. Sickly. Off. This didn't feel like Harry Potter. At least not the one she knew. 

"You have to give it a chance at least," Hermione said, hope brushing her voice. 

"I'm trying to give it a chance," Harry's voice broke and he finally looked at her. Green eyes searched her face, rimmed with red and longing. "I'm trying, but everywhere I turn is dark."

Hermione's breath caught in her throat. Harry sounded depressed. Really depressed. A shot of fear struck through her stomach. If Harry was in pain, or hurting himself, or thinking about... no she couldn't even think it. This was Harry. He was good and right, and he didn't deserve this. This, whatever he was going through. She didn't know what it was, or what was dragging him down, but now she could see that whatever it was was there, clear as day. 

She had known after the Battle of Hogwarts that things weren't okay. Not just with Harry, but with everyone. Maybe that's why she hadn't seen all this sooner. Everyone had been torn up, grieving, and lost. The Weasleys wandered, doing their best to pull their lives back together after the loss of Fred. Ginny had gone into a boiling rage, taking her anger out on anyone who dared look at her wrong. But the Weasleys eventually rediscovered their rhythm, and even Ginny had cooled down to her usually fierce self. Luna had left for America almost as soon as the war was over, and Hermione still hadn't seen her since. Neville was Neville. He kept quiet for a time after it was over, but something in the war had brought out a new side of him. He became confident and strong, courageous too. 

All of her friends and family, shredded after the War, found a way back to themselves. No one was quite the same as they had been before, but Hermione would have been worried if any of them had survived unscathed. But Harry hadn't found his way back. Hermione couldn't believe she hadn't seen it sooner. Harry was her best friend. She had simply been too wrapped up in Ron and the hope he brought to really see Harry. To look past all the sad smiles and false assurances, and see that he was still very, very trapped. 

Her plan with Pansy was starting to look underwhelming. She had thought it to be a good idea, for Harry to make his amends with Malfoy, and for him to find some peace with everything that had happened. But her plan wasn't going to pull him out of depression and possible post-traumatic stress disorder. At best, it would only find him an extra friend to find some happiness in. And that was at the very best. 

Hermione was at a complete loss for the first time in her life. This couldn't be solved by her, or Pansy, or Draco Malfoy.  

"I think you should talk to someone about what you experienced in the war," Hermione said, trying to keep her voice composed. 

"I know I should," Harry looked away from her, "I just don't know how."

"I think I may have an idea," Hermione smiled slightly. 

"I'm all ears," Harry said, and Hermione heard the fatigue crowding his voice. 

"Pansy helped me find someone who you could write anonymous letters to," Hermione said, carefully watching for Harry's reaction. "That's why she's involved in this."

"What does she know about me?" Harry's voice was blank. 

"No more than I did," Hermione said. 

"I don't see how talking to an anonymous therapist over letter is going to help me," Harry said. "They're still not going to know anything about those experiences. I need someone who  _knows_ what it's like to- to-"

"I know," Hermione said. "That's why we found someone who went through the war, just like you."

"Just like me," Harry snorted weakly. 

"You'd be surprised." Hermione shifted closer to him and rested a hand on his knee. "They're at Hogwarts, and they've agreed to write the letters."

Malfoy had not, in fact, agreed to write the letters, but Hermione figured it would be easier to sell Harry on this if she acted like it was all already sorted out. Besides, once Harry was on board, maybe Pansy would have a better chance at getting Malfoy to agree. 

"So you're bribing someone to write letters to the Chosen One. Are you serious, Hermione?" Harry's said irritably. 

"No, no! The other person doesn't know who is writing to them either. It's anonymous both ways. That way you can both talk about the war, and maybe tried to find some common areas in your experiences. And maybe some closure," Hermione said. 

Hermione waited with bated breath for Harry's response. 

"Okay," he said. 

"Really?" Hermione couldn't believe that he was actually agreeing to this. 

"But I reserve the right to stop writing the letters at any time if I feel uncomfortable or if I suspect the person knows my identity," Harry said firmly.

"Okay," said Hermione breathlessly. She really couldn't believe it. Harry's stubbornness typically got the better of him, and she had been expecting to wear him down on it over the course of several weeks. "Just know, though, that this isn't going to fix everything."

"I wouldn't dare to hope," Harry said without a trace of sarcasm. 

"It won't take away the darkness," Hermione said cautiously. "I'm just hoping it will help lift some of the weight."

"I know."

A tiny smile spread across Harry's face, reluctantly, but it was still there. A little flower bloomed in Hermione's chest, and she hoped beyond belief that this could help. Maybe, maybe. 

Maybe Harry could still find himself yet. 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! I'm doing my best to try and write as often as I have the chance, but I apologize for all the delayed updates. I got pretty carried away with all the dialogue, but I did my best to add in more of the storytelling/description pieces. Hope you enjoy!


	7. Draco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who don't know, I'm writing this fic for the 2019 HP WIP Fest, run by @rose-grangerweasley-is-bae on Tumblr. I originally started writing this as a prompt from @haecceitism (also on Tumblr), and really needed something to get this piece rolling, so I signed up for the fest. Looking at the schedule I've drawn up with a crap ton of words ahead of me in 37 days, I'm realizing I may have a bitten off a little more than I can chew, but you know what! I'm going to do my best!
> 
> Hope you like this chapter! We're finally getting some Draco POV!

Pansy and Granger never stopped whispering together these days. It was driving Draco mad, and Potter couldn't stand it either. Not that he's watching him or anything, he just happened to notice. Draco sighed at the dormitory ceiling. Soon, school would be over and he wouldn't have to put up with all of this. The stares and muttering wouldn't go away, he knew. But after eighth year was over, Draco was hoping he'd be able to move to France where he wouldn't have to see any of his classmates again and try to live in peace. He couldn't wait until Potter was away from him forever. 

It was too confusing, dealing with him. They had fought and hated each other for ages, and then Draco had to ruin it by not giving him up to the Dark Lord. But how could he? It was Potter, and he was the only hope that Draco had had left. He did what he thought he had to. Draco hadn't actually expected to survive the war. But he had. And then Potter had come back over the summer, defeated and kinder somehow. He looked as if he were being swallowed whole by something terrible, but he no longer fought Draco. He didn't egg him on or push him to rage. All he did was tease. Almost as if they were friends. Draco shook his head at himself, turning to bury himself into his pillow. He couldn't think like that. Not when it was so far from the truth. 

Draco had helped Potter that once over the summer because he needed it, and it was obvious. It wasn't Draco's fault that no one else noticed how sick Potter had been looking. But it was just the one time. Draco avoided Potter at all costs, not looking for a repeat of that event. He didn't need his hopes crushed when Potter shoved him away. No, Draco would do that part himself. 

Even still, a little voice in Draco's head said, you wish you could talk to him. Just stop running from him and let him talk. You know he wants to. 

Draco hated the little voice. Hated himself because he knew the little voice was his own.

The covers were warm when Draco tucked them over his head. He could hide in this small dorm room forever, ignoring the snores of the Slytherins he had shared dorms with for the past seven years of his life. He didn't know why McGonagall hadn't mixed their dorms what with her whole inter-House unity agenda. She had simply put all the dorms in one area and forced them to share a common room. If Draco wanted to avoid any of his classmates, more specifically Potter, all he had to do was stay in his dorm. It was too easy. 

"Draco, stop moping around. I need to talk to you," Pansy's voice rang violently through the room and Draco shut his eyes tighter. He didn't want to talk to her right now. Maybe later, when it wasn't one in the morning. "I know you're awake," she sang. 

"Pansy, do you mind?" Blaise's voice came out roughly from behind his curtains. Draco knew that Blaise hardly ever slept anyways, seeing as he was always up late reading Muggle novels. Blaise didn't know that Draco knew this, though. Draco had found out in fourth year, after he found a heaping stack of the books under Blaise's bed. If he didn't want anyone to know he spent all hours of the night reading fantasy series, he shouldn't have been so careless about where he hid them. In any case, Draco let Blaise's fake bleary voice slide.

"Go back to sleep, Blaise," Pansy stormed through the room, kicking socks and strewn book bags out of her way. 

"Merlin! Cast a spell or something," Theo grumbled as one of Pansy's flying feet kicked the side of his bed. Theo actually did sleep, unlike Blaise. So deeply that Draco sometimes thought that he had simply died in the middle of the night. 

"Fine," Pansy rolled her eyes. " _Muffliato_ _!_ "

"You couldn't have put me outside the spell?" Draco said as Pansy leaped onto his bed. 

"Well you're the one I need to speak with," Pansy said. She crawled over his rumpled blankets until she was practically sitting on Draco.

"You're squashing my arm," Draco said without pulling the covers down from his face. Why in Merlin's name was she here at one in the morning? What was so important that she needed to talk to him about right this moment? It's not like he had been sleeping, but still. Someone should really put a charm on the boys' dorms, so girls couldn't come up. 

"Should have moved it," Pansy said breezily. Draco could practically see her flicking her dark hair behind her ears. "We need to talk."

"You've mentioned."

"Ugh, Draco." Pansy whipped the covers back from his face and glared at him, shadowy eyes glinting down at him. He knew he looked an absolute mess, but it was only Pansy. 

"What is it?" Draco said, sitting up and pushing Pansy off the bed in the process. 

She stood up indignantly, clinging to his sheets to pull herself up. "Remember I told you about the anonymous letter writing?"

Draco flopped back in bed and turned his back to her. "I already said I wouldn't do it."

"The other person actually agreed," Pansy said, sitting on the edge of his bed again. "I think it could be really good for you."

"You also think Blaise has a crush on Professor Trelawney."

"He does!" Pansy insisted, her voice hushed as she looked at the curtains drawn around Blaise's bed. Draco simply rolled his eyes. 

"I'm not writing to some random delinquent," Draco said. He pushed Pansy off the bed again, but she caught herself and stood before she could hit the floor. 

"I'll see you in the morning, Draco," is all she said before exiting the dorm room. 

"Is she gone?" Theo asked sleepily. 

Draco dropped Pansy's silencing spell. "She's gone."

"Thank Agatha," Blaise said, and Draco heard a page turn. 

Draco finally relaxed when the rest of the room settled. Theo's snores filled the room again and Blaise's pages continued flipping in a steady rhythm. No other Slytherin boys had come back that year, but Draco didn't mind. With Crabbe gone, Goyle hadn't wanted to return, and Draco didn't blame him. Despite that, it still twisted his gut to see the two empty beds standing collecting dust in the corner of the room. Blaise and Theo made good company, though. Draco wondered why he hadn't become better friends with them earlier in his Hogwarts career. The two were brilliant, had no connections to his father's pureblood bigotry, and didn't do whatever he said just because they didn't know what to do with themselves. Not that Draco had minded that from Crabbe and Goyle when he was younger, but they had always been just sidekicks, never friends. Pansy was the only friend he'd had before this year. That, at least, was one good thing that had come from the War. 

"Stop tossing and turning," Blaise said after a while. His voice was completely clear. Draco supposed Blaise knew that Draco knew about his evening habits. "You should sleep."

"So should you," Draco said quietly. 

Blaise whipped open his curtains to stare at Draco and set his book down on his knees. "What did Pansy want?"

"Nothing," Draco said, not looking at Blaise. He readjusted his pillows to make himself look busy.

"Whatever it is," Blaise said, "she always has your best interests at heart."

Draco didn't respond. After several minutes, Blaise told him to sleep again and closed his curtains. Draco heard him whisper  _nox_ , and the sound of pages rustling quieted and then ceased. 

He didn't sleep.

 

 Draco closed the dormitory door behind him the next morning, rubbing his eyes blearily. He hadn't slept one bit, unable to do anything but lie there and think. He bumped into someone walking out the door and looked down before he saw the person. He didn't want to get beat up by some righteous Gryffindor this morning. 

"Pardon," Draco mumbled, trying to press himself back into the door. 

"Malfoy." The voice was unmistakable. Potter. Draco looked up quickly, and there he was, infuriating as ever. Of course, it had to be Potter. 

"Potter," Draco tried to school his face blank, but a sneer slunk up his face without him meaning for it to. That was nothing new when it came to Potter. 

Potter didn't say anything else, though Draco was expecting him to. He just stood there in the hall, looking at Draco with something like exasperation on his face. Potter was terrible at hiding his emotions from anyone in any situation. Draco did nothing but avoid and hide his emotions from other people. Nearly exact opposites in every way. 

Potter's hair was a mess, just as it always was, but it had some sort of early morning charm to it that was beginning to make Draco crazy. Perhaps it was the sun shimmering through a paned window, or the pillow creases pressed into his cheek, or maybe the way his glasses were sitting just slightly crooked on his face. It could have been that Draco had fancied Potter since forever, or maybe everyone could have seen his beauty in this light. Draco didn't know. Potter was always beautiful, wasn't he? 

"See you then," Potter said, turning away from Draco and leaving hurriedly.  _See you then?_ What in Merlin's name was going on? Summer was over, and Potter needed to stop being so bloody soft and hopeful. They weren't friends, they hadn't resolved their differences, they were nothing. 

Draco hated Potter for looking lovely in the mornings. He hated him for saying  _see you_ when he should've said  _sod off_. Draco hated him because he had absolutely no idea the effect he had on Draco, or anyone really. They called him the Golden Boy for a reason. 

"Are you thinking about Potter?" Pansy said immediately as she came down the hallway Draco had been standing in, still straight up against his dormitory door. 

"As always," Draco said without hesitation. Exhaustion overwhelmed him. He didn't have the energy to fight today. At least not with the one person he knew was permanently on his side. 

"Good," Pansy said. "I've had a thought."

"What?" Draco snapped. He might have the energy to fight today after all. 

"You're already thinking about Potter, so that should make this easier," Pansy said and grabbed his arm to tug him out of the hallway. Why so pushy?

"Just spit it out," Draco said. 

"Before you say anything, just hear me out," Pansy said. This wasn't going to be good. "What if you just talked to Potter?" Draco nearly stopped in the doorway of the common room before he could pull his thoughts together enough to continue walking. "What else could go wrong?"

"What else could go wrong?" Draco laughed. He knew he sounded cruel, but he didn't care right in this moment. "Anything, everything."

'"If you won't just talk to him," Pansy said, "then you need to write those letters."

"No," Draco said firmly. He didn't want to spill his guts out to some stranger who would undoubtedly figure out who he was and beat him into the ground. He didn't need that. Not now. Not when he was just beginning to find the little happy moments. 

If someone asked if Draco was happy, he wouldn't have to think about, and wouldn't have to lie. No, of course he wasn't. It should've been obvious. But the idea of writing a faceless stranger about the horrors of his life was too much. Blaise and Theo were good friends, and loveliness practically leaked out of Pansy. They three of them made up his people, the only ones he needed. In them, he found tiny pockets of happiness and laughter. That had to be good enough. He didn't want to bring it all up again, the hurt, the cruelty, the things he had done, the things he hadn't. All he wanted was to push it down so far into the past that it would never be able to surface again. Not in his dreams, and not in the eyes of the people who watched him. 

"Please," Pansy whined. This wasn't going to work on Draco. After all, he'd had plenty of practice turning down her charms and tricks. "Even Granger can see that you're struggling."

Draco shook his head. "You _told_ Granger I was struggling."

"And so what?" Pansy never lied. "She knows I'm right."

"So, no one pays enough attention to me to know if I'm alright or not," Draco said. 

"I do," Pansy said quietly. 

Draco turned and grabbed her hand, stopping her in the corridor. "I appreciate it, I really do. But I don't want to pour out my heart to someone who would kill me if they knew who I was."

"I promise it's not like that," Pansy said, pulling me closer by the hand. "Can you just give it a chance?"

"I don't think so," Draco said and shook her hand off gently. 

Pansy didn't bring the letters or Potter up again at breakfast, or the rest of the day for that matter. She sat with Granger in all her classes as she had been doing since the start of the school year, and rarely spoke to Draco unless to ask for something trivial or comment on classwork. It was nice, in all the wrong ways. Pansy never let up on anything, and her relaxed behavior was throwing Draco off, even if he wouldn't admit it. 

Several times in class, Draco caught Potter looking at him cautiously. This time, however, Draco had no problem keeping face cold and staring Potter down until he finally looked away. 

Around dinnertime, Blaise strode up to Draco, looking as posh and collected as ever. 

"Draco," he said simply, by way of greeting. 

"Blaise," Draco mimicked his tone of voice. 

"How was your day?" Draco couldn't remember the last time someone had asked him how his day was. 

"Fine. And yours?" Draco asked. 

"Dandy," Blaise smiled lightly and ladled some soup into a bowl for both himself and Draco. 

"Thank you," Draco said, surprised. Blaise was a thoughtful sort of person, but not usually like this. He was always one to say thoughtful things, but he was by no means a softy who did everything he could for each person he passed. Maybe this is just what friends did for each other. Maybe.  

"So I talked with Pansy," Blaise said. Ah, here he goes. "I wouldn't leave her alone until she told me why she barged into our room last night. She tried to lie to me, you know! Can you believe that? As if I wouldn't see right through it.

"Anyways, she told me about the letters."

"Okay," Draco said. Nothing Blaise said, nor Pansy for that matter, was going to budge him on something like this. The soup Blaise picked tasted spectacular. 

"I think it's a decent idea. I mean, there are some risks to it, but that's just life. Draco," Blaise said when he didn't look up. Draco met Blaise's eyes sullenly. "I think that along with that risk, there's some promise. I know you think we can't see your cracks, but you can't continue on behaving as if the war never happened. Maybe it will help somehow."

"How will it help?" Draco was tired of having this conversation. At this point, it would be worth it to agree to write the letters simply so that his friends would be able to talk about something else. 

"Dunno," Blaise said, unhelpfully. He took a big slurp from his soup. "Mum made me go to a doctor over the summer, so I could talk about the war. Granted, I didn't have it near as bad as you. Truthfully, though, I didn't realize how much I was suffering until the pain eased a little."

Blaise suffering? Unflappable, unmovable Blaise had suffered? Bloody odd. He always seemed so at ease. 

"I still don't see how it would help," Draco said.

"You'd have to think about it," Blaise said. Draco waited for something else, but Blaise was looking at him like it was Draco's turn to speak. 

"What?"

"You'd have to think about the war, and your parents, and probably Potter. You wouldn't be able to ignore it. You'd have to come to terms with what happened to Crabbe, with what happened to you. A pen pal can't fix this, but maybe they can help _you_ fix it yourself," Blaise looked straight at Draco, unwavering. 

Draco hated to admit this, but he had a point. A really good one. An inarguable one practically.  _I didn't realize how much I was suffering until the pain eased._ Something about that bounced around Draco's insides uncomfortably. If he ignored something bad for long enough, would he forget how much it was still weighing on him? Maybe. Probably. 

 

 

"I heard Blaise sweet talked you," Pansy said, smirking at me over the parchment strewn in front of her on the floor. She had been attempting this Potions assignment for at least the past hour. 

"From who?"

"The man himself," Pansy smiled before looking to glare down at her scribbles again. "Can I borrow your notes?"

"Absolutely not," Draco pretended to sound scandalized. 

"Thanks," Pansy smiled again. She reached over him to grab his stacks of parchment on how to undo Transfiguration spells gone wrong. 

"Stop looking so smug with yourself." Draco closed his Astronomy books and stacked them carefully on a nearby table. Pleased that the towering books wouldn't crumple, Draco moved over to sit down with Pansy on the floor. 

"You haven't agreed yet," Pansy said pointedly. She didn't look up at him, still focused on a graphic diagram of a porlock going through a misspoken Transfiguration. 

"I'm aware," Draco said. He looked into the flickering flames in front of him. What would it cost him to do this? For Pansy? And for himself?

"The other person isn't a therapist," Pansy said, as if she knew what was going through Draco's head. "They're just a regular student at Hogwarts."

"So then you're saying that they're most likely some third year who will only be able to speak to an experience about losing her kneazle, and not being allowed to go to school last year," Draco said. There was no malice in his voice, but it was clear that if this was the case, Draco would not come near the letters. 

"No," Pansy said firmly. "That's not it."

Draco waited for Pansy to elaborate, but she didn't say anything further. "Do I get any information on this mystery writer?"

"No, the same way they're not getting any information about you. Completely anonymous unless you decide otherwise."

Draco nodded slowly. "Okay."

"Okay?" Pansy looked like she could barely contain her surprise. "You mean you'll do it?"

"Only if you'll get off my back about it," Draco said. "I don't want you asking after the letters, or if I'm still writing to them."

Pansy narrowed her eyes. "You can't make me promise anything like that."

"I know I can't," Draco said, picking himself off the floor. "I'm just asking. Now get back to your Transfiguration."

Pansy huffed and watched as Draco brushed himself off and retreated back to his dorm. 

Draco couldn't believe that Pansy had worn him down that easily, only over the course of barely a week. He didn't really need help. His method of coping seemed to be working just fine, but if this would appease her, then this is what he would do. It didn't have to mean anything anyways. All he had to do was write enough letters for Pansy to be happy, and then he could simply stop. 

Really, what could go wrong?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finally worked out an outline and schedule for the writing so I'm not running completely blind through this. Phew. Hopefully that will help keep me on track to get this done in time for September 1st and have this fic all ready to go for fest time!


	8. Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm stressed as heck, but here we are with the next chapter!

Harry sat quietly at a table in the common room, watching eighth years come and go, living their lives happily. He liked this common room, and although he could barely admit it to himself, he might've liked this eighth year common room better than the Gryffindor common room. Of course, they were both very different, but the Gryffindor common room was always so chaotic. With the mix of younger and older students canoodling in the red decor, there was almost no end to trouble. Here, in the new east wing, with a mosh of different House colors and students, was different. It was calm in a way that Gryffindor wasn't. Harry didn't know if it was because only eighth year students lived here, or if it was because of the House diversity, but for whatever reason, this common room was highly preferable to the Gryffindor one. The whispers and chatters were quiet in the mornings and evenings, and happy throughout the day. The Hufflepuffs were constantly bringing up food from the kitchens, which had formed many fast friendships with the other Houses. The Ravenclaws were practically invaluable, as they had access to an additional library from their old common room. Plus, they were always available if one needed help, with homework or something else. Even the Slytherins held their own in this new common room. Much to Harry's surprise, they were brilliant friends. Harry hadn't tried to befriend any of them, but he wasn't blind to their friendships with each other and he could clearly see how they formed fast bonds with people from other Houses. 

It was unbelievable, Harry thought. The whole time he had been at Hogwarts, he'd had preconceived ideas about the Houses and their students. He'd thought Hufflepuffs were softies, not hardcore debaters. He didn't know that some of the Slytherins, not Ravenclaws, were the ones who most happily took up those debates. He'd expected Ravenclaws to be uptight and do-goods, much like Hermione really. He hadn't known how creative it's students were. 

Mostly, Harry just hadn't realized how diverse every House was. Not one student was the same, and not one House deserved the stereotypes that had been put on it.

Even the Gryffindors, Harry supposed. Although they, true to their reputation, were best at organizing the monthly parties in the eighth year common room. 

Harry still needed to write a letter of some sort to the anonymous writer he had agreed to get in contact with. He didn't know how to start, or even if he was supposed to send the first letter, or if they would. He had no idea how this was supposed to work. 

Harry sighed and drummed his fingers on the table he was sitting at. He wasn't even pretending to do homework, or write a letter, or anything. He simply sat in the common room and watched the people there. Not creepily, he hoped. Just curiously. 

It was at this moment that Draco Malfoy walked through the common room door, tugging at his robes. Curious indeed. Harry sat up a little. He didn't know what he wanted from Malfoy. Eye contact? Friendship? Hatred? Mostly, he wanted Malfoy to stop acting like Harry didn't exist. It was becoming seriously infuriating, and Harry didn't know why. In sixth year, Harry had had no issue with Malfoy's sudden disinterest in picking at him. He didn't know why now it seemed to matter so much. 

Malfoy went straight up to the Slytherin dorms, just as he always did. Harry slumped over again and picked himself up from the table. He couldn't sit here forever, no matter how much he wanted to. Even if it was the only time he felt at peace, sitting here, watching the lives of others go on around him, he still couldn't stay. 

Harry dragged himself up to his dorm and pulled the curtains around his bed closed. Inside the red hangings of his bed, he pulled out parchment and a quill. He might not have had the energy to do a full assignment in this moment, but maybe he could get this anonymous letter out of the way. 

But what was he supposed to say? Harry didn't want this person to have even a slight clue about who he was, but if he ended up talking about his experience in the war, it would be immediately obvious who he was. Harry couldn't believe he had agreed to this. It was ridiculous and it was practically impossible to do without something going wrong. That always seemed to be Harry's path. No matter how hard he tried, something would always go wrong. 

So that's how he decided to start his letter. 

 

_Hello,_

_Let's give this a shot, right? This letter writing._

_No matter how hard I try, something always goes wrong._

 

Harry didn't know what else to say, so he decided to just leave it at that. And with no penman's name coming to mind, he left it unsigned. He'd have to give it to Hermione when he saw her next. Harry knew the letter was barely anything, but he had no idea what to write. Hermione would be surprised, but what would she be able to do about it? Harry made a note to remind himself to make it clear that Hermione could not read whatever he wrote. No matter what happened with this, he wanted it to be his business. 

If it went well, he didn't want her smug  _I told you so._ And if it went poorly, he didn't want her encouragement to keep at it and the disappointed look behind her eyes. 

No, he would keep this to himself from now on. 

 

"Have you written the letter yet?" Hermione asked eagerly the next morning in Charms. Harry sighed. So much for not letting Hermione get involved. 

"Yes, I've written it," Harry pulled the folded note out of his pocket. "I figured you would know how to send it."

"Ah yes!" Hermione's eyes were too bright. She tried to snatch the note out of Harry's hands, but he pulled it back quickly. 

"Don't read it Hermione," he said seriously. 

"Of course not," Hermione said, but her eyes were still too bright as her gaze followed the slip of parchment in Harry's hands. 

"I mean it," Harry said, catching her gaze. "This is my business now."

"Fine," Hermione said. Her posture slumped a bit but she took the note and put it carefully into her school bag. "I'll make sure your pen pal knows how to send it to you directly, so that you won't have to worry." She gave him a pointed look, but Harry just shrugged. 

"I'll see you later," Hermione patted his shoulder lightly before returning to her seat next to Parkinson. 

Harry watched them carefully. After the Battle of Hogwarts, he had been weary of Pansy Parkinson, but sitting at a school desk with a rumpled blouse and tie, she looked completely harmless. If Hermione was friends with her, then she must be alright. Even still, Harry wasn't sure he was ready to reach out to her, and he knew Parkinson wouldn't reach out to him first. She actually had strong common sense, no matter how shallow and awful she had seemed when she was younger. Then again, everyone he knew had been shallow and awful when he was younger. Himself included. Maybe that was just something they all had to go through and then grow out of. 

Charms went by as it usually did. Slowly. Harry counted the minutes as they went by, only occasionally stopping to watch Hermione lean over to say something to Parkinson. He couldn't stand it in some ways. Not because it was Parkinson exactly, but because it was Parkinson instead of him. Why was Hermione spending so much time with her and not him? He didn't mind Hermione being friends with both of them, even if he didn't want to be friends with Parkinson. He just didn't understand why Hermione didn't seem to want to hang out with him at all anymore. But then, he was tired and sad, and Parkinson still held the joys of life in her smile. It was hardly a comparison. Harry was sure Hermione had much more fun with Parkinson anyways. 

Harry breathed heavily and rested his head on his folded arms. The Charms classroom was nice, especially compared to some of the other classrooms. Professor Flitwick wasn't too strict, so the room was always filled with conversation, sometimes quiet, but always there. A faint musty scent wafted up from Harry's desk and he could practically taste the motes of dust gleaming in beams of sunlight. Charms was as easy as the eighth year common room in it's peace. Harry didn't have to be a part of things to enjoy them. In fact, it was better that he wasn't a part of any of it. It was better for everyone if he simply stayed in the corner and enjoyed it all away from where others would have to put up with him. 

Harry swallowed a slight wave of nausea and closed his eyes as Flitwick droned on about the variations of floating charms. He knew he should be paying attention. He had been trying extra hard to take notes and keep up this year, especially now that he had no excuses for falling behind. Harry thought he was getting better at the school thing, but in moments like these, when he was far too exhausted to keep his head up much less listen to a complicated lecture, it felt like he was going nowhere. 

 

 

And so the days passed, much as they always had. Harry was now remarkably lonely with Hermione consistently off with Parkinson. He had no one to talk to except for the odd straggling pet in the common room and Harry thought he might possibly be going crazy. The only good thing about becoming a loner was that he had more time than he needed for schoolwork. In no time, Harry's grades picked up and his magic improved. Harry couldn't believe that he had done it without Hermione's help, but it turned out that focus lasted much longer than copied homework. Even so, Harry still missed Hermione. It was maddening, having her always nearby, but never around to talk to. So it ended up being a relief when Harry's anonymous pen pal wrote him back. 

An owl arrived late at night with a neatly folded piece of parchment folded in it's beak. Harry had known that whoever he was writing was from Hogwarts, but it was still a nice reassurance to see that the owl was carrying the note from it's beak. If the owl had had to travel a long distance, the note would have been tied to it's leg. 

The parchment was of much higher quality than Harry's. It sat in front of him, unopened on a table in a library among his spread out books. Harry resided in this back corner of the library these days. The secluded corner offered a window facing the Great Lake, a sizable table, and easy access to a plethora of old Quidditch magazines. An added bonus was that as it was so deep in the library, people couldn't bombard him or track him down for awkward conversations about the sob stories of the war. When Harry had come to the library on his own for the first time, he had made the mistake of snagging the first open table he had spotted, and it had cost him valuable time that he could have spent on homework with all the first years he had had to talk to. Needless to say, he didn't make that mistake again.

Harry didn't want to open the letter. That wasn't quite true. Curiosity pushed a certain button in Harry, much as it always had. But the thought that he would be giving pieces of his life away to someone was frightening. Harry took a deep breath and reminded himself that this was all up to him. He didn't have to do or share anything that he didn't want to. His life was in his hands. 

 

_Hello stranger,_

_Someone sort of forced me to do this, but I suppose I'm willing to give it a shot._

_I can relate to everything always going wrong. It's the same for me. Except after trying so hard to make things right and it not working, I just stopped. Trying, that is. Maybe you should try that. I can't say it's helped me in any way. But after trying so hard to please so many people, dropping those responsibilities is freeing. I'm doing my best to live the way I want to now. It's hard, and I'm not even close to how I imagine life being someday. But it's a step, no?_

 

Harry set the letter down and stared down at it. And he smiled. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. This voice who was writing sounded familiar. Like someone he knew, but mostly it sounded like himself. Or himself from a past life maybe. Before he was withdrawn and ill. _I_ _'m not even close to how I imagine life being someday. But it's a step, no?_ A step. He could take a step. Life could be better someday, couldn't it?

For the first time since the war ended, Harry felt a flicker of hope spark in his stomach. 

This was ridiculous, this whole thing. The writing of letters, the talking to someone he didn't know. And yet, possibly that's what could make it so good. Harry smiled to himself again. He knew this whole thing was stupid, and his hope shouldn't ride on this one thing, and this would all fall apart. Everything falls apart. Still, he couldn't help but hope. 

Harry picked up a pen and began to write. 

 

_In some ways, I was forced to do this too. I think I gave in too quickly. Don't be offended, it has nothing to do with you._

_I don't know if I can drop all my responsibilities. I wish I could, but even though I'm beaten down and lost and aren't holding up those responsibilities anyways, I still must hold on to at least the image that I'm holding them up. If not for me, then for everyone else._

_This might sound odd, but my bar is set much lower than living life the way I want to. I simply want to live._ _Living is enough._

_Don't you think?_

 

 


	9. Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delayed update, I'm feeling a bit messy right now. Hope you like this!

Rain sprinkled in through the open window, splattering lightly over the parchment on the desk. The evening sky was cloudy and dark, filled with clouds of dark gray and steaming blue. Harry sat at a table by the window in his corner of the library. The last letter from his anonymous sender sat in front of him, along with an empty parchment for the letter he was preparing to write. Harry knew he needed to open up, knew that this would help him. Upon the arrival of the first note, Harry had felt a tiny lift in his chest. It was tiny, but it was something. A day later, that lightness had dropped back down on him, and now he was back sitting in this dark corner with no energy to light his wand or find a lamp, and feeling light headed and dizzy. 

 _Hullo,_ Harry wrote. The blank parchment stared up at him, daring him to stain the parchment further with ink. Harry took a deep breath and forced his eyes to focus on the paper in front of him. He could do this. 

The old letter stared up at him. 

 

_Hello stranger,_

_No offense taken. I think I gave into this letter writing too quickly as well. I figure it can't hurt, though._

_I understand why you might think that you can't uphold your responsibilities, but if you ask me, you have to be the priority right? If you're not upholding those responsibilities anyways, why bother? People have most likely already noticed anyways. Besides, what responsibilities are so important for a student to hold up? I don't know how old you are, but I'm assuming you're at least fifteen. Don't tell me, I don't want to know._

_Maybe living is enough for you now. But what about in ten years? You can't just survive forever._

_Signed,_

_Anonymous_

 

Harry read the letter again. His pen pal seemed very open to talking to him, but Harry wasn't sure if he was ready to give up information so quickly, and this letter seemed to be subconsciously asking for a lot of information. Asking him about his responsibilities, his age, his future. Any one of those could give him away, and by answering all three, he might as well write Harry Potter in bright red across his parchment. Fortunately, Harry had gotten decent at working around questions over his time with the Ministry this past summer. He didn't want to think about that time. It might have only been a month, but a month was far too long. The parchment stared up at him and Harry rested his head on the desk. He didn't even bother to lift his head when he wrote even though his writing would be crooked and uneven. It was already crooked and uneven, so what did it matter?

 

_Hullo_

_It's hard to explain, but I can't come first._

_Anon._

 

Harry didn't know what else to write without giving anything away, so he simply folded it up and gave it to the owl that had delivered the last letter. 

It was so late, and Harry was so tired. He knew there was homework to be done, people to go and talk to, things to be taken care of. But when sleep reached for him, he didn't try to resist it. 

 

Harry peeled his eyes open and shifted uncomfortably. His back, neck, and head ached. His whole body hurt. Harry sat up slowly, cringing at the moaning and popping of his bones as he moved. Ah. He had fallen asleep in his corner in the library, still sitting up at his desk. Harry rolled his neck and groaned when his body protested. When Harry stood, he could practically feel the blood rushing out of his head. He narrowly avoided passing out onto the floor by quickly flopping back down into the chair he had slept in. Harry got up slowly and blearily packed his things away. Judging by the sun streaming through the windows, he had missed breakfast, and if he didn't hurry, he would be late for his first class. Harry hurried out of the library, pushing past a confused and very irritated Madame Pince. 

This was going to be a very long day, he could already tell. 

 

"Harry, where were you?" Hermione hissed as he slid into his seat in Transfiguration. 

"Doesn't matter," Harry hissed and Hermione quickly turned back to her paper. They had Transfiguration with the Ravenclaws, not the Slytherins, so it was nice to have Hermione in the seat next to him. That way he could avoid the awkward stares as he ran in late, and the inevitable awkward moment when a poor Ravenclaw got a whiff of Harry's morning breath. 

"Mr. Potter," McGonagall said, her face stern. "Grand of you to join us. I'm assuming that since you are late, your homework is done, so let me ask you. How exactly would you go about changing yourself back after a full body Transfiguration?"

Harry blinked. He had not done the homework. "Transfiguring myself?"

"Yes, Mr. Potter, a self Transfiguration." Professor McGonagall stared and Harry gulped. 

"Um, well, you would er-"

"It sounds like you do not know." Her voice was distinctly disappointed and Harry hung his head in response. "Very well, see me after class. Ms. Granger, you seem enthusiastic to answer."

Harry drowned out Hermione's reply, and the rest of the class for that matter. McGonagall didn't call on him again, thank Merlin, but it probably would have done him some good to pay attention and take notes, seeing as he was already behind. 

When the rest of the class had filed out, Harry walked slowly up to Professor McGonagall's desk. Her eyes narrowed sternly when he reached her desk. Harry looked up forlornly. He knew giving McGonagall sad eyes wouldn’t make her take pity on him, but in this moment, it felt like his last defense. He looked up to McGonagall as a role model like he had once looked up to Albus Dumbledore. It was different, though. Mostly, because McGonagall deserved being looked up to. Sometimes Harry wondered if Dumbledore had even been worth what Harry had once given him without thought. He didn’t much like to think about Dumbledore. And besides, the way McGonagall looked at him now, with regret and defeat, was worse than any chastising Dumbledore had ever given Harry.

“Potter,” she said. 

“Professor,” Harry said and looked down. He tried not to throw up on her desk. 

“I understand you’ve been having a hard time.” Professor McGonagall said it stiffly, as if she’d had trouble getting it out. Harry wished people would stop saying that to him. He knew he was having a hard time just as well as the next person did. 

So, Harry didn’t answer her. He didn’t know how to speak and he wanted to go back to the library. He had unearthed _Quidditch Through the Ages_ out of the library finally, and he wanted to read it. 

“But I also must remind you that I am running a school, not a therapy session.” Harry looked up sharply, heat beginning to rise up his neck. Embarrassment, fire, sorrow, burning, grief. Hurt. “You must get control of yourself, and you must stop distracting the other students.”

Harry closed his eyes tightly, swaying on his feet. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so sure about looking up to McGonagall. Adults always had a way of letting him down; he shouldn’t have let this one get his hopes up. 

“You think I’m a distraction?” Harry’s voice croaked. 

“Granger is whispering in class and even Parkinson looks concerned about you. Aside from that, every student in this school is watching your every move,” McGonagall drew up her height. As if Harry needed another reminder that his life would never be fully his. “You need to set an example. Pay attention in class, show that you’re recovering. Laugh, have fun.” McGonagall’s voice softened momentarily. “You have the opportunity to be a child, Potter.”

“I never did,” Harry said. He avoided her eyes when she searched for his.

“Never did what?” McGonagall asked. 

“Never had the opportunity,” Harry said. “To be a child.”

McGonagall sniffed condescendingly. “If you think so, then why do you behave like one?”

Harry’s eyes widened and his breath caught. Bile rose up his throat and Harry felt slightly less inclined to push it back down. But then he remembered, and he shoved it down to the boiling pit of his stomach and turned away. McGonagall said nothing more, even when Harry paused at the door before leaving her classroom. Possibly, there truly were no good adults in this world. 

Harry closed the door behind him as quietly as he could, not wanting to be anymore noticed than he already had been today. Humiliated. Put down. Child. After everything. 

“Potter?” A startled voice rose from Harry’s right and he turned. 

Malfoy. Of course he was here. Now, of all times. 

“Malfoy,” Harry said simply, and he let the sick in his head leak into his voice. 

“What are you doing?” Malfoy asked, looking confusedly from the Transfiguration classroom to Harry’s face. 

“I’m not sure why you care,” Harry said, fully turning to face him. Malfoy’s face was drawn and pale, the lines of his body under his robes undefined and smudged.

“I don't.” Malfoy said harshly. 

“Then don't ask,” Harry tried to muster some anger to throw in his voice, but it sounded feeble to him. 

“Well, pardon me,” Malfoy said, his voice back to cool indifference. 

“What are you doing?” Harry asked. He tried and tried to build up something akin to contempt, but his body was empty. This spark had long ago burned out. Malfoy didn’t answer the question. “Just standing here at the door listening?”

Surprise flashed across Malfoy’s face, but quickly vanished. “Of course not.”

“Like I believe that,” Harry scoffed. It all felt so false. 

“Would you like me to tell you that I did in fact hear the whole conversation, no matter how unintentionally?” Malfoy leaned against the wall casually, as if his words couldn’t bring Harry down with a light flick. What couldn’t these days?

“Did you?” Harry asked. His legs trembled underneath his weight, and he begged himself not to reach a hand out to the stone walls to steady himself. 

“If it makes a difference to you, I agree with McGonagall,” Malfoy said icily. “You are a child.”

Harry stopped cold. The shaking in his body increased tenfold, but his mind fell quiet. So he had heard then. Really heard, not just pretended to. Fair enough. Of course Malfoy had to hear Harry getting put down by the last person he had considered to be safe. Harry wanted desperately to go home, but he no longer knew where home was. 

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. He wished that he could be at home with his mother and father. His real mother and father, back in what could have been their cottage in Godric’s Hollow. Sirius and Remus would be there, smiling and hugging him, not a day in their life spent in the wrong place. No one would look older than they should have, and Harry would be safe.

But he was here, his skin burning deep red and his heart coursing irregular patterns through his blood. Malfoy stood staring at him, the picture of sophisticated grace with no thought of the war. Even Malfoy could come away from the war perfectly fine, with no baggage or loss of sleep. The rich boy didn’t have to suffer his father’s sins, much less his own. Draco Malfoy lasted still, the king of his own world. 

“I hate you,” Harry said, and the words were real. Every ounce of Harry’s weight and energy poured into his words. “ _I hate you._ ” 

This should be over. All of this fighting, and childishness. How ironic it seemed to be to Harry. The title of child had never belonged to Harry, just like the title of son had never really belonged to him. Both words had been stripped away from his flesh unwillingly too early to matter. 

Harry didn’t know who had thrown the first punch, just that Malfoy was glaring at him, and then suddenly fists and arms and random body parts were sifting through the air unorganized. Harry fought to catch his breath around the smothering of another body struggling against him. He got hit, he knew, but he hardly felt it over the rising sickness flooding his senses. Malfoy’s fist hit his cheek, knocking his glasses askew. Malfoy’s foot kicked him so hard in the rib cage, Harry’s vision bordered on darkness for a moment. 

Harry fought at first, resisting the urge to curl up and cry. But then, after nearly no time at all, he just gave up. He did exactly what his body told him to as Malfoy beat him bloody. Harry curled up and let tears slide down the sides of his face as Malfoy staggered to his feet, kicking him again before he realized that Harry wasn’t fighting back. He stood there for a moment, looking down. Mussed blonde hair wisped across his flushed face and beads of sweat shined above his eyebrows. 

Harry, unwilling to keep fighting, threw up still laying on his side. Malfoy didn’t move an inch, just stood and stared down at Harry’s shape. Bruised, bloody, covered in vomit and tears. Harry thought it would have been appropriate if something like that had happened at night, but no such luck. There was no crawling into the night with shame burning him inside and out. Class went on, and Harry missed it. McGonagall was going to berate him until she retired when she inevitably found out.

But in that moment, lying in the corridor before the end of class and storm of footsteps. The inevitable shrieks when they found him lying there, Malfoy standing over him looking half-victorious. Before that, he lay on the cold floor and wished for the pain to be over. 

 


	10. Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Made this chapter extra long!
> 
> Small trigger warning! There is a very lightly implied eating disorder mentioned in this chapter.

_Hello stranger,_

_First, I hope it's alright if I call you that, as it seems the most fitting for you. To be honest, I think we jumped into the deep conversations too soon. Let's just talk conversationally, shall we? Maybe we can talk about little things about us that don't matter in the grand scheme of things? I like to think about that sometimes. There are so many things about me that no one knows, and no one would find relevant. But they are still pieces of who I am, are they not?_

_I'll get started._

_First, I refuse to eat white chocolate. It's an abomination to nature, and whoever invented it should have stayed an unsuccessful inventor of sweets. If you ask me, which you didn't, but if you did I would say that white chocolate is basically the equivalent of an Unforgivable Curse for sweets. Sorry. I shouldn't have said that. Unforgivables, and all that. Moving on._

_Second, I am very hungry right now. I can't help but think about Muggle pizza. When I was away from my parents this summer, I tried some, and frankly, wizards have been missing out. The wizarding community should not be so strict about their lines between us and Muggles. Don't you wonder if we could both benefit from knowing each other? But the Ministry would never abolish the Statute of Secrecy._

_It's almost time for lunch. Hope you have a good day of classes._

_Signed,_

_Anonymous._

 

Harry's brow furrowed and unfurrowed over the most recent note from his anonymous pen pal. It had been just over a week since Hermione had set him up with this writer, and the letters were adding a surprising pleasantry to his time at Hogwarts this year. Of course, it helped, seeing as Harry had barely anyone to talk to outside of Hermione, and she was constantly hustling away with Pansy Parkinson. Harry sighed and tried to shake his head of the thought. It had to be good that the two of them were getting along, and it wasn't Harry's duty to keep Hermione all to himself. Both she and he knew that she could find better friends than him, Harry supposed, and she had. 

Pages rustled nearby and Harry burrowed deeper into his chair in the corner of the library, his favorite spot in the castle. When Harry heard footsteps, he quickly lifted the book in his lap in front of his face, the anonymous note tucked into the pages discreetly. No one needed to know he had an anonymous pen pal. 

"Nice book you've got there," Hermione said with a smirk. Harry lowered his book to glare and noticed Parkinson at Hermione's side. He lifted the book in front of his face again quickly. "Must be very interesting, seeing as you're reading it upside down."

Harry said nothing and didn't readjust the book, but his face flushed dark red. "It's very interesting indeed," Harry said in a strangled voice. 

"Are you coming to dinner?" This from Parkinson, and Harry lowered his book in surprise. 

"I'm not very hungry," Harry said, finally setting his book down. In actuality, his body ached with the longing for one full night of sleep and peace of mind. Food didn't happen to be at the top of Harry's priorities anyhow. What with schoolwork, Pansy Parkinson, the anonymous letters, and Harry's growing love for the library, Harry's thoughts didn't cross paths with normal bodily functions very often. 

"You didn't eat lunch either," Hermione said, crossing her arms. 

"I don't think breakfast either," Parkinson said under her breath, although it was more to Hermione than to Harry. 

Harry shrugged again and picked up a quill and scrap piece of parchment. 

"Are you doing your homework on that?" Parkinson asked disdainfully and came to stand over Harry's shoulder. Hermione followed just behind her and Harry shook his head absent-mindedly. Parkinson's voice was excited when she asked, "Are you writing a letter?"

Harry turned a glare up to her. "More of a note."

Parkinson shrugged delicate shoulders and sniffed. "Whatever. How is it?"

"As if I would tell you," Harry said, but there was no real malice in his voice. 

Parkinson turned to Hermione, and Hermione said, "How is it going, Harry?"

"Just fine, thank you," Harry said. He didn't look up from the blank parchment. Chewing his quill, Harry wondered what to write to the mysterious sender. 

"Is it really, or are you just saying that?" Hermione folded her arms. 

"I told you I didn't want you to know what I was writing about," Harry said. 

"I'm asking if you're writing at all," Hermione said. 

"He's clearly writing," Parkinson rolled her eyes. "He's got parchment out right now."

"He could just be pulling it out to put on a show," Hermione said with narrowed eyes. Harry rolled his eyes internally. He didn't have the energy to do something like that, and he knew he would never be able to trick Hermione anyways. She would find out one way or the other at some point. 

"I don't think-" Parkinson began.

"I want to see an older letter," Hermione snapped, holding out an expectant hand. Was she serious? Harry looked up at her with huge eyes, hoping she wasn't really asking him to give over a piece of someone else's thoughts. After all, he didn't have any of his own letters. All he had was the letters Anonymous had sent him, and Harry frankly didn't feel it was fair to hand over something so personal to Hermione. Harry couldn't be sure, but he hoped that wasn't what she was asking. She had agreed to keep this private, didn't she? This didn't feel very private. Harry swallowed around his suddenly rough throat. 

"Hermione!" Parkinson gasped and slapped Hermione's arm. For the first time, Harry was glad for her, even if it was only a scandalized gasp. Harry knew that when it came down to it, he wouldn't deny Hermione if she pushed hard enough, even if he didn't want to show her the letters. But maybe if Parkinson was here, no one would read the notes but him. 

It's not as if the notes were terrible or explicit, or anything of the sort. They just felt like a tiny bit of himself, a tiny secret that belonged only to him and his anonymous pen pal. It was almost like the two of them shared an odd third space where anything could exist, no matter how well they did or didn't know each other. Even though Hermione and Parkinson technically had begun this operation, it felt to Harry as if it had belonged to only him the whole time. 

"Stop!" Parkinson hissed to Hermione. "Let's go to dinner."

Hermione didn't argue, only sent one last long look over her shoulder as she and Parkinson left the library. Harry still couldn't believe how only a few months into the school year, the two of them were as thick as thieves. Ron would have a fit if he knew.  _Ron._ Did Ron know? Him and Hermione were dating, so had Hermione told him about all this? It was hard to believe Hermione not telling Ron as something as the going-ons of this school year, but it also seemed like her to keep things to herself if she thought it was for Ron's own good.

Maybe Ron knew, but it occurred to Harry that it had been a fair amount of time since Harry had heard Hermione mention Ron at all, much less talk about the details of their conversations and thoughts on the recent events of their lives. Of course it was possible that Hermione just talked to Pansy about Ron, and not Harry. However, for some reason Harry thought it seemed more likely that Hermione had just stopped talking about Ron at all. 

 

_Hullo,_

_I'll be the person who finds the little things about you relevant, if you want. We can't really talk about the big things, so we might as well know the little ones. And if you ask me, the little things make you who you are more than the big things do._

_I hope it makes you feel better that_   _I've never once tried white chocolate in my life. Only milk chocolate. It's decent, but treacle tart is really the superior dessert over all other desserts and candies._

_I don't know what to think about the Statute of Secrecy. I guess you could say I've gotten a taste of both the Muggle and wizarding worlds, and although fundamentally we are the same, we're too culturally different to really get along with Muggles._

_On another note completely, I may be looking too far into your words, but just know I'm not going to give you the same hints about me that you've given about you._

_Anon._

 

For the first time that week, Harry made it up to his dorm room before he fell asleep at his seat in the library. The eighth year common room was mostly empty, with only Neville left still sitting up. 

"Hey, Neville," Harry said.

Neville smiled. "Long time, no chat."

"Exactly what I was thinking," Harry said, sitting down in an armchair by Neville. He sunk into the warmth emanating from the fireplace and let his spine melt into the squishy old chair. 

"Your school year been alright so far?" Neville asked. His eyes darted to the side as he asked and his fingers twitched in his lap. 

Harry shrugged. Shrugging seemed to be something he did often these days. He just never had the answer anybody wanted. "Yours?"

"Can I ask you something, Harry?" Neville asked, ignoring Harry's question. Fair enough, it was irrelevant small talk anyways. 

"Okay," Harry shifted in his seat, doing his best to look like he wasn't extremely uncomfortable being asked questions. 

"How do you do it?" Neville looked up suddenly, his eyes hard and intent. 

"Do what?" Harry looked away. The eye contact stiffened Harry's spine and he scooted to sit himself up straight again.

"Manage all the fame and questions, act like nothing's wrong when behind the scenes your life is falling apart." 

The bones in Harry's back creaked in his stiff posture.

"My life isn't falling apart," was all Harry said. 

"Yes it is," Neville said, unwavering. "Don't lie."

"How is it falling apart?" Harry whispered. He didn't want to believe that his life was falling apart, but if it was clear to someone Harry only knew as a friend in class, then surely the whole world knew. 

"Please," Neville snorted. "You sleep during class, but study all hours of the night. You've become quiet and secretive, hardly talking to anyone unless Hermione or Pansy Parkinson speaks to you first. You miss all your classes one day and then show up two days later looking like you've been run over by centaurs. Just...everything about you feels so  _off_ , Harry. Where are you?" Silence filled the space between them and regret flashed across Neville's face. "You know I don't mean that harshly, right?"

"Right," Harry nodded. 

"But you've simply pretended that your problems don't exist," Neville said. "When adults talk to you, you become 'Fake Harry.' The one who looks and acts how you used to, and the adults believe you. The worst part is that they can't even tell the difference."

"I don't do it on purpose," Harry said. Harry gripped onto the arms of the chair and stared into the winding flames in front of him. If he looked at Neville now, he's not sure if he would be able to respond. 

"Just tell me how you push it down," Neville said, urgently leaning towards Harry over the arm of his chair. 

"I do just that. I push it down." Harry pushed himself off his chair before Neville could respond. "Good night."

 

_Hello stranger,_

_You didn't say anything about yourself in your scrap of a note. Not to be offensive, but it was hardly on even a corner of parchment._

_I'm not giving you hints about who I am, I'm just telling the truth about myself, like you said was good. The little things, yes? But by all means, if you've figured out who I am, let me know._

_Just out of curiosity, why do you think Muggles and wizards can't live side by side in peace? Doesn't that feel very pureblood and traditional?_

_Do you like Quidditch? You don't have to tell me if you play or anything, for Merlin's sake, but do you like it?_

_Signed,_

_Anonymous_

 

Upon waking up in the Gryffindor dorms, Harry stared at the ceiling in confusion before realizing where he was. Sleep didn't often find him here. Usually it chased him down in hidden corners of the castle where he felt safe and untouchable. Here, the light was as golden as the lion it represented, and Blaise Zabini was inexplicably standing over his bed with a smirk sprawled across his face. Harry shot up into a sitting position. 

"What are you doing here?" Harry mumbled. 

"I need to ask you a question." Blaise sat on the end of Harry's bed uninvited. 

"Go on," Harry said, knowing there was no stopping Blaise Zabini when he had something on his mind. 

"Are you writing anonymous letters?"

Harry's stomach dropped. "What?"

"Are you writing anonymous letters to someone? It's okay if you're not, I just had to ask." Blaise shrugged carelessly and picked at his cuticles. The action was just slightly too casual to be subconscious, and Harry stared at his fingers while he did it.

"I- why would you ask that?"

"Just answer the question," Blaise looked up from his nails and towards Harry coldly. 

"Yes," Harry said. "But how do you know that? Do you know who's writing me? Blaise!"

But Blaise simply winked and walked out the door, leaving Harry rumpled on his bed, still half asleep and wishing he had not spoken to Blaise Zabini before eight in the morning. 

 

_Hullo,_

_I suppose you're right. I just really don't want you to know who I am. Sorry. And I don't know who you are._

_On the matter of Muggles, just because an opinion is traditional, does not mean it is wrong. Wizards have lived in secrecy for centuries, and looking back on the history of witch burning, it seems safe to not let history repeat itself. Besides, our lives are fine how they are, taking care of our own. It sounds bigoted, I'm sure, but it wouldn't be safe for the Muggles either if we lived side by side. Just imagine the chaos and power imbalance._

_Something about me is that I've started reading books. Don't make fun, I've always been able to read. It's just that I simply never wanted to, and outside of schoolwork, which I usually copied off a friend, and the Daily Prophet, I never had reason to. After the war ended, it felt like some little piece of me had risen up inside me. The need was insatiable, almost as if it as trying to catch up for the last years. So, now I'm mad about books. On the other hand, I don't have many people to talk to, so it gives me something to do._

_I love Quidditch! I only keep track of a couple teams, but there is nothing better in the world than flying. I could do it forever, just flying above the world and its problems until you couldn't fly anymore. I wish that was a reality._

_Anon._

 

"Did you hear what happened after Transfiguration the other day?" someone whispered furiously. Harry stopped, instantly recognizing Hermione's hushed whisper. It was clear that she didn't think there was anyone within earshot of her, especially not Harry Potter standing stock still just around the corner. 

Parkinson responded. "Yes, but that doesn't mean-"

"Pansy," Hermione said flatly. 

"Hermione."

"We need to do  _something_!" Hermione said, her voice remained low. 

"No, we don't!" Parkinson argued. "We'll only make it worse!"

They had to be talking about Harry... and Draco Malfoy? Harry snorted to himself. Neither Parkinson or Hermione Granger would be able to fix whatever was wrong with Malfoy. Merlin knows, even Harry could admit that what had happened after Transfiguration was only partly Malfoy's fault. If Harry hadn't been so angry in the first place, and irritated about Malfoy's lack of a presence this year, plus what Malfoy had said, than the fight would never have happened. Playing it back, Harry figured it was all Malfoy's fault after all. It only rested on Harry's shoulders that he didn't have the capacity to ignore Malfoy. 

Harry shook his head and walked around the corner to where Parkinson and Hermione were still standing in the corner, inches apart, whispering furiously together. Parkinson caught sight of him first, and she jerked back away from Hermione, her eyes widening slightly. 

"Potter," she said, nudging Hermione in the side. 

Hermione backed away quickly and smiled brightly at Harry. Too brightly. Harry wanted to close his eyes. "Harry! Lovely to see you!"

"Just on my way to Potions," Harry sighed, not stopping when he passed Hermione and Parkinson. 

Neither of them responded, letting him walk by. As soon as Harry reached the end of the corridor, the whispering picked up again. Shaking his head, Harry made his way down to the dungeons for Potions, hoping desperately that Malfoy wouldn't be there. 

But of course he was. There was no reason why he wouldn't be. Even worse, Harry was seated just in front of him, the perfect position for getting insults thrown at him for the whole class. 

Parkinson and Hermione ran in late, their faces red and their breathing heavy. Hermione gave him a small smile, and sat in one of the remaining tables with Parkinson. Harry wished that Hermione would sit with him, just once. And not just on the days when Parkinson wasn't there.

Much to Harry's surprise, Malfoy didn't say one thing throughout all of Potions. He didn't even bother to bump into his shoulder when he left at the end of class. It was very unlike the old Malfoy, and very much so like the post-war Malfoy. Why wouldn't Malfoy just talk to him? They had talked a little this summer, and it had seemed alright. Harry might as well have not existed at all. 

 

_Hello stranger,_

_Fairly, I don't want you to know who I am either._

_I see your point on the Muggles, but I still disagree. But because I was raised with traditional values, sometimes I think I only attempt to think differently because I'm trying so hard to get away from that life. I don't want to be associated with it, and so I do everything in my power to make myself the opposite. I try to think liberally, even when my brain repels it. I try to live the normal life that I didn't have before the war, just to show that I am normal._

_I must admit, I was tempted to tease about the books. I've read my whole life. It's been my only escape since forever, so I wish well on your recent endeavors to enjoy them. It's well worth it. Especially during the war, when there were things going on in my home, I would retreat up to my room and hide under my bed with a book. Cowardly, I know. But when it came to the war, Coward should have been my middle name. My favorite thing to read was_ A Tale of Two Cities.  _No one knew I read it. It would've been dangerous during the war as it's Muggle, but I read it over and over again, finding new meaning in it every time I read it. Have you read it? I related so much to Sydney Carton. He made every wrong choice, did everything wrong. But when it really mattered, just once, he chose what was right. His character was why I loved it so much. Charles Darnay was too perfect. He did it all too well. Sydney Carton was human._

 _Have you read_ Station Eleven _? Or maybe_ More Happy Than Not _? I loved both of those books so much! They're Muggle as well, so I don't know if you'll have heard of them. Come to think of it... I don't know if you're pureblood or Muggle-born. Or half-blood, I suppose. Please don't elaborate._

_Really, all Muggle books are wonderful. Well, not all of them, I suppose. Some of them are gruesome. But I love them all._

_In terms of Quidditch, I wish too. Even after the world had solved its problems, I wouldn't come back down._

_Signed,_

_Anonymous_

 

Harry pushed farther back into the soft chair in his corner of the library. This little corner had rapidly become his favorite place in Hogwarts, beating out the Room of Requirement, the Gryffindor common room, and even the Quidditch Pitch. He didn't play Quidditch anymore. Too much energy and attention, and he didn't know if eighth years were even allowed to play. 

Dusty pages from  _A Tale of Two Cities_ slid in between his fingers, and Harry smiled. Without reading it, this book was a piece of art. Aged and papery, it held the grace and wisdom of an elder who still held the spirit of a child. Reading it was even better. Harry flipped another page, humming softly to himself as he read. 

Golden light filtered in through the large window, washing the books in the sunset. Dust motes streamed across the pages, and the delicious scent of old and new, loved and forgotten, seen and invisible surrounded him. How had he not seen the beauty of the library before this year? Hermione had had it right all along. This cavernous room was one of the most magical places in Hogwarts. 

 

_Hullo,_

_Sometimes I think that because I was forced to fight for one side of the war, I do everything in my power to just forget about all of it. I mean, I can't forget about it. I'm not sure how to explain it. I can't get past my own experiences, so I sometimes forget why we were fighting at all. I know, to defeat Voldemort, to restore good. But it all cost so much. I guess what I'm trying to say is that some people only see the sides, and the light won, and they forget what it cost. They forget what people went through to win that. I don't want to be one of those people._

_I'm so inexperienced when it comes to books._

_But you intrigued me, so now I'm reading_ A Tale of Two Cities.  _I'm liking it so far, but I already feel like you couldn't be Sydney Carton. Everything I know about you, the way you write, suggests that you're kind, well-intentioned, pure of heart. Sydney isn't any of those things. But Charles Darnay has no flaws, and Lucie Manette is solely a female pawn. Sign of the times?_

_I haven't read either of the books you've mentioned, but maybe I will. Growing up, I wasn't allowed to buy books or read much. And then, you know, the war and school, so not much time there. It's a little overwhelming, how much there is to do, to read. But I also feel like the world is completely open to me for the first time._

_Muggles themselves are a bit gruesome. They just never seem to know when to stop, but the same thing could be said about wizards. Maybe that was Voldemort's problem. He just didn't know when to stop, even when he had what he wanted._

_Anon._

 

The days of stolen moments and secret letters passed quickly, and before Harry knew it, weeks had passed since he first begun to write the letters. He would've thanked Hermione for setting it up, but he didn't want to hear her say  _I told you so_. 

 

_Hello stranger,_

_I know what you mean. I want to forget everything about the war. Absolutely everything._

_Lucky for you, I am very experienced when it comes to books._

_I'm glad you're liking_ A Tale of Two Cities _! But... did you just....flirt with me? Or am I crazy? I'm crazy, and desperately wish I hadn't written that. In response, I say, if you knew me you would agree with me. I am exactly Sydney Carton._

_How can you not have been allowed to read when you were younger? That's absolutely foolish. I can't imagine any kind of parents that would do that. At least now, the world is your oyster! Greet it with open arms._

_I think humans in general are gruesome, Muggle or not. Maybe it was his problem (He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named). You're brave for even being able to write his name. He was evil even before he got out of control, though. I don't think it was a matter of not knowing when to stop. I think it was that he wanted more than he could have had, and it made him cruel. It might sound awful, but I sort of understand where he's coming from. If you want something so bad, you become ruthless in your path to get it. In your ruthlessness, you either lose sight of the goal, or destroy the path in front of you. There's no winning either way. That seems to be the story of my life. No winning._

_We're getting closer to Christmas holidays (only two weeks away)! Do you have any plans?_

_Signed,_

_Anonymous_

 

A smile split across Harry's face helplessly. Each new letter brought a smile to Harry's face, and a crack of hope to his heart. He had absolutely no idea who his anonymous pen pal was, but whoever they were, Harry liked them. A lot. They were witty and thoughtful. Kind and honest. It was stupid of him to develop a crush on someone he didn't know, and it wasn't a crush. Not yet. But there it was.

The smile couldn't seem to melt off his face for the entire day. Hermione had to flick the back of his head twice in Herbology to keep him from sticking his hand into a snapping flower, he was daydreaming so much. But all Harry could think about was the light, delicate curve of Anonymous'  _y_ 's and how with each note, he added more exclamation points. It didn't mean anything. Not to Harry, and not to whoever Anonymous was. But even so. 

Even so, it was something. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credits for characters and canon plot points go to JK Rowling, of course. My writing is my own work. Credits for A Tale of Two Cities goes to Charles Dickens, Station Eleven to Emily St. John Mandel, and More Happy Than Not to Adam Silvera.


	11. Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy!

Harry's letter writing was getting much better. At least, he thought so. And who else was to know except for him and Anonymous? He had taken to calling them Anonymous in his head, even though he was technically "Anonymous" as well. But he always signed off as Anon., so there had to be a difference. 

In any case, Harry's writing was improving. Not just in his letters, but in his notes and essays for school. Even Hermione had commented on it one night as she was looking over a roll of parchment for Charms. 

"Harry, your vocabulary has really improved," Hermione had grinned widely. 

"Really?" Harry asked, looking up at her. 

"Really," Hermione had nodded, looking awful pleased about something. 

Harry hadn't mentioned it, opting instead to sit back in the armchair by the fire, _A Tale of Two Cities_ clutched in his fingers.

Maybe it was all the books he had been reading recently at the recommendation of Anonymous that was helping. Perhaps it was the letters he received from Anonymous, always proper, but undeniably enthusiastic. Maybe even it was simply the practice of being able to write more, with more focus, more determination. It felt good, though. Every time a word fell out right, or a phrase caught Harry's eye, it felt good knowing that he had created it. 

He had never learned anything of the kind with the Dursleys. In fact, Harry had barely spoken until he was almost seven years old because of the Dursleys. They say that children need to be spoken to, interacted with, to learn to speak and understand a language while they're growing up. But without that from the Dursleys, Harry picked up stunted, broken speech in pockets of school. And it had stuck with him since. The inability to say what he needed when he needed to had haunted him his whole life. But with this newfound gift of being able to write _something_ , it was getting better. Somehow. 

 

_Hello!_

_I may have flirted... just a tiny bit. Only a little! But in all honesty, I'm reading_ A Tale of Two Cities _for the second time through and I think it's already my favorite book that you've recommended to me so far. And you're no Sydney Carton. Give me more books to read and maybe I'll compare you to more characters._

_It's hard to explain my childhood. My parents died when I was young, and I was sent to live with a family who wasn't accepting of who I was... as a person with magic, or in any way, I suppose. It's hard to talk about because I can't even really think about it myself. Even mentioning it like this, writing alone to you, makes my stomach curdle and my head go dizzy._

_I see your point with Voldemort wanting more than what he already had. But I don't understand how you can understand where he's coming from. I'll be honest, it could be because I was never given a chance to go out for what I wanted, but I just don't get it. Adults have told me what to do, where to go, how much to sacrifice, how much to bear my whole life. Someone told me to search the unsearchable path, so I did. But it wasn't my path. I did what I had to do, and less what I wanted._

_Happy one week until Christmas hols! I think I'll just be staying at Hogwarts. Nowhere else to go, but I'm happy here. Any plans for you?_

_Anon._

 

Harry grinned as he tied the letter to a school owl's leg and sent it off into the night. Hermione said, when this had started ages ago, that all he had to do was write the sender's pen name on the note, and it would find its way to Anonymous. He hadn't believed her, but he had now been sending Anonymous notes and letters for months, so he supposed Hermione was right. She usually was. 

Harry trudged down from the Owlery and pulled his cloak tighter around him. The air was brisk and full of the musky scent of owl droppings and feed, old echoing footsteps, and messages coming and going from person to person. Harry smiled genuinely, inhaling the essence of the Owlery. 

That smile quickly fell off his face, though, when Harry spotted Malfoy jogging up the steps to the Owlery, the tips of his ears pink and his breath irregular. Loose strands of blonde hair glinted the moonlight coming in through the broad windows into Harry's eyes, and Harry huffed with annoyance. But Malfoy hardly noticed Harry, brushing past him with barely a glance in his direction. The light sweet lemon scent that drifted in his wake only served to irritate Harry further. 

Harry inhaled slowly and let it out. Hermione was waiting for him down in the common room, and he still had a small amount of homework to finish for his classes the next day. Draco Malfoy's infuriating indifference wasn't going to throw him off this evening's schedule. 

Harry walked the whole way back to the common room in a stupor, thinking about how bloody awful it was for Malfoy to help him like he had in the summer, and then just completely ignore him. Not to mention listening to his conversation with McGonagall, and then fighting him in the-

"Harry, are you talking to yourself?" Hermione asked curiously when Harry stormed through the door. 

Harry looked up. "Erm... no."

Hermione hummed, a slight smile on her face. It was then that Harry realized that Pansy Parkinson was there. Sitting unnaturally close to Hermione. Harry slowed his walk through the room and slowly moved to sit down in the chair across from them. He didn't sit until both Hermione and Pansy nodded at him to, and then he sat with a satisfied plop. 

"So," Harry said, looking between the two of them. Harry didn't pride himself on being a particular observant person, but he also didn't think Hermione had any right to tease him as she did about it. He wasn't completely blind. For instance, he could see as well as the next person how Parkinson was looking at Hermione oddly, and how Hermione seemed completely unbothered by the fact that Parkinson's arm rested casually across her shoulders. 

"Harry," Hermione leaned forward. 

"You don't need to say my name like I'm a child every time you talk to me," Harry said before he could stop himself. He hadn't meant to sound so aggressive. 

Hermione sat back quickly. "I know."

Silence ensued before Parkinson nudged Hermione a bit and then got up and stalked off to the dormitories. 

"What's her deal?" Harry asked, staring after her. 

"She's giving us some privacy," Hermione said. She looked strangely nervous, as if insects were crawling through her pores. 

"What do we need privacy for?" asked Harry. 

"I owe you an apology," Hermione let out a great gust of air. 

"For what?"

"For being a terrible friend to you this year," Hermione said. Harry stared at her. He didn't think he remembered Hermione ever admitting she had done something wrong before, much less apologizing for it. The fire popped behind them, filling in the space between them. 

"You don't have to apologize, Hermione," Harry said quietly. 

"Yes, I do," she said firmly. "I got so caught up in my own life and problems, and trying to fix your problems with someone else, that I forgot that we're supposed to be friends. Not as a last resort. I pushed you off on an anonymous writer because I was confused about Ron and Pansy, and oh bloody- My own problems!"

Harry blinked at her and Hermione breathed heavily. 

"I'm sorry," she said. 

"I don't understand," Harry said. He dug his fingers into the chair cushion underneath him and looked down at his knees. 

Harry was unnerved. He had no idea why Hermione was so adamant about apologizing for something she wasn't at fault for, and why she was blabbering about Ron and Parkinson. Harry was distracted and ill on so many levels. Lost, broken, useless. It was a miracle Hermione had become friends with him back in first year, so he couldn't blame her for not wanting to be friends with him now. No one would want someone like him, especially him, as a friend. Ron had proved that with his distance and lack of contact. Hermione had proved it with her loss of interest. His other classmates were too wrapped up in the freedom of no longer having to worry about a war to think about him. Even Neville had to unintentionally berate him for things Harry hadn't meant to happen. Rejection simply ran in Harry's blood. 

"What I'm trying to say is that I miss you," Hermione said. Her gaze was soft and sorrowful.

"I think you've got it wrong," Harry said. Exhaustion swept through him. Why was Hermione insisting on having this conversation at almost eleven at night? Harry continued, trying to finish this quickly. "It's my fault not yours." Confusion struck across Hermione's face. "I'm the one who's practically unbearable, not you. I don't blame you for making new friends."

Hermione's face wrinkled unpleasantly. " _Unbearable?"_ she whispered. "Is that really what you think of yourself?"

"It's true," Harry said softly. 

"That's the farthest thing I've ever heard from the truth!" Hermione cried, careening out of her seat on the couch towards him. "Oh, gracious, I can't believe this," she said before launching her arms around him in a hug. 

Harry sat without wrapping his arms around her, barely inhaling around the bushy mass of her hair. "Hermione?"

She sat back and swiped tears from her cheeks furiously. "Harry," she said earnestly, "you are the sweetest, most lovely, self-sacrificing person I know. I love every bit of you, and you should know that!" Hermione scolded. "I can't believe I let you think something like that. Like you weren't good enough. Because you are. You're more than good enough. I am so lucky every day to have someone like you in my life." Hermione hiccuped. "And as a friend? It's a miracle, Harry Potter."

Something hard and knotted attempted to force its way up Harry's throat, and he swallowed desperately. His chest aching, his breaths caught in his throat and Harry sagged against the armchair. Harry wanted to go back in time and hear her say it all over again. He mattered, he mattered. It didn't mean anything if he didn't fully believe it, or if Hermione was just exaggerating it. Even if that was true, she was still sitting here, her heart breaking through her eyes over and over again. If Harry didn't matter, at least that did. Someone cared, no matter how unworthy Harry was. 

It had been so long since Harry had felt like he had been noticed by anyone. It felt so good to have Hermione close to him, talking to him again. 

"I'm sorry," she said, hugging him again. 

"Me too," Harry whispered into her dark curls. 

 

_Hello stranger,_

_In the case of flirting... I better recommend books with some alluring male characters... Let's see. I'm thinking_ Raven Boys _by Maggie Stiefvater. Take a close look at Richard Gansey in that one. Also, how about_ Carry On _by Rainbow Rowell. There's a rather enchanting young man in that book that quite reminds me of myself. Perhaps you'll think so too._

_What in the mercy of Merlin did that family do to you? Just tell me. This is easier right? Not face to face, you don't know me, I don't know you. It's fail safe._

_I'm the same with adults, oddly enough. My whole life, I've done everything they've told me with no complaints. No resistance, no nothing. Fat lot of good that did me, thinking they would know better. They didn't. I'd be surprised if your adults were much different._

_Happy almost Christmas! Okay consider me crazy for doing this, but I'm going to write something. For you. Don't laugh, okay? Please?_

_I'm imagining for Christmas this year that you're happy. I know you don't feel it yet, but you will. Christmas magic is in the air, after all. Lights are twinkling on the tree in your common room and you're opening presents from all of your favorite people. You smile as you open each one, and even without the tags, you know who sent each present. Maybe there's a gift from me under that tree. You wait until your friends are gone to open it, but when you do, you grin. The most beautiful smile in the universe. I won't tell you what it is. Your present, I mean. I'll be somewhere far away, cold and detached. But every time I receive a letter, I'll think of your smile and suddenly I'll be warm again._

_You and I will both eat treacle tart, though not together. I know how much you want this to stay secret. How much_ you _want to be secret. You sent me nothing this year but a long letter, and it's the best gift I could've asked for. Better than all the fancy, unknowing things my parents purchased for me, trying to bribe me to stay there with them. But I travel back to Hogwarts the day after Christmas. Because I know you're here._

_I don't know who you are, or how close or far you are from me. But I know that you're somewhere in Hogwarts, and that's closer._

_Signed,_

_Anonymous_

 

"What's that?" Hermione asked sleepily, curled up on the same couch the next evening. Harry stared at the letter in hand. His stomach contracted and swooped, and all he could think was _him._ It was a him. 

It wasn't really a matter of thought. It wasn't bad. Harry didn't think so. Harry didn't really think it mattered at all, not to him anyways. But what he was thinking was that suddenly this person that he liked _so much_ was now just a little bit clearer. A little closer. 

"A letter," Harry said to Hermione. "It's a letter."

Hermione grunted in response and burrowed back into the couch. It was far too late for them to be up like this. Hermione and Harry had spent their entire evening talking. Until two am. Parkinson had flitted in and out of the conversation until she had reluctantly gone to bed, but Hermione had stayed. Harry hadn't expected her to, especially seeing as she was half asleep. But she had stayed on the couch and talked the whole night.

Not about any of the problems she had mentioned the day before, although Harry wished she would've mentioned them. He would've liked to hear her talk about them. But they talked about all sorts of other things. Homework, families, sweets, hobbies. Everything unimportant. It's lack of importance struck Harry as very important, and he was very happy to have one of his best friends back. 

Ron had still not reached out to him since the last time they had spoken over the summer. Harry knew he should just write first, but he didn't know how to start. And Hermione hadn't mentioned it or nagged about, which Harry suspected had something to do with Parkinson, although he couldn't be sure how she was related yet. 

But this letter.

Anonymous' flirting was almost shameless in the first paragraph alone. Harry had tried to be so subtle it wouldn't be noticed when he had complimented him. But this, this was not subtle in the slightest. Harry kind of liked it. Liked that Anonymous thought that Harry was someone worth flirting with, even though they didn't really know each other. 

And the last part about Christmas. _Merlin._ Harry blushed as he read it again. He thought he might pass out where he sat. 

"Are you alright?" Hermione asked blearily from where she still lay, balled up on the couch. 

"I think I'm fantastic," Harry said, dazed. His heart swung and spun, and his stomach twisted itself happily. 

The eighth year common room was decorated excessively, and floating lights illuminated Hermione's now definitely sleeping form and also every slant of the letter Harry had just received. Harry swallowed and grabbed a piece of parchment and quill hurriedly. 

 

_Hullo,_

_I better get started on those books fast, then, hm?_

_I hate to ruin the beautiful mood of your last letter, but in terms of this family. They locked me in a cupboard for the first time when I was two and I lived there until I was eleven years old. The cupboard under the stairs to be specific. By the time I was six, I was cleaning, repairing, and cooking the whole house, for the whole family. No one touched me unless it was to shove me around. Sometimes against the walls, sometimes back into my cupboard, sometimes into whatever they'd had me working on if I messed it up. I've tried to block it out, but that part of my life has been branded into my head forever. My inescapable horrors of childhood._

_You're the only person I've told that to. Please, please, never tell anyone about that. Even my best friends don't know. I probably wouldn't have the courage to tell even you if I knew who you were, or had to say it to your face. In fact, I'd probably burst into tears and then throw up. I don't want you to witness that._

_My adults were not much different, it's just that their agendas worked out in the end by pure luck. I'm guessing by your letter, your adults were not so lucky?_

_Now onto my favorite part of the letter you wrote me._

_Wow. I would never laugh at something as wonderful as that, first of all._

_I feel chaotic, and hopeful. Chaotic hopeful. Like my body is swelling and bursting with happiness just reading that. I could never write like that. You're amazing. Absolutely wondrous. You know, no one ever writes about me. Not like that. Rumors, maybe. But never like that._

_I want you to know that I might be sort of crazy about you._

_I miss you, even though I don't know where you are._

_Anon._

 

Harry sent the letter off as quick as he could, and was shocked when a reply came not ten minutes later. Apparently Anonymous had not left Hogwarts yet. 

 

_Hello stranger,_

_Is it terrible that I want to track those people down and make them beg for mercy? I can't believe you went through something like that, and so young too. I don't even know how to describe to you how much it makes my heart hurt that someone with a soul like yours had to go through something like that, and is somehow still so beautiful to this day._

_It's your life. I won't tell, of course. But maybe you should. And as a side note, if it meant getting to see you, and getting to be there for you, I wouldn't mind if you cried and threw up. Then at least I might be able to believe that you're really real._

_As you predicted, my adults were not lucky. They were horribly, miserably, wrong. But I did every word they said, and I knew it was awful, but I did it anyways. So I'm horrible, miserable, and wrong too._

_I can't believe the part I wrote about Christmas was your favorite part of the letter?? Maybe you should laugh. Or should I laugh? I don't know, don't laugh. Actually do laugh, I bet your laugh is beautiful._

_I don't know if I'm amazing as you make me out to be. Well, actually, I know I'm not as amazing as you make me out to be. But I can tell, without a doubt, that I am 100% crazy about you. I don't know if that's possible. I don't know how. We've only been writing each other for a couple of months, and I don't know who you are. But I do. I know you, even if I don't know your face. I keep imagining you a certain way, no matter how much I tell myself not to. I keep telling myself not to fall for someone who doesn't want to know who I am. I keep telling myself not to fancy someone who wants to be a secret._

_But I think it's a little too late._

_Miss you,_

_Anonymous_

 

Harry folded the letter on his chest and stared up at the ceiling, breathing hard. Oh, Merlin. What did he get himself into?

Hermione rolled over and mumbled in her sleep and Harry glanced over at the dark brown hair flopped over her face and her mouth slightly open. Harry stared at the two letters resting on his chest and tried to control his breathing. _I keep telling myself not to fall for someone who doesn't want to know who I am._ As in fall in love? An irrational, desperate desire struck through Harry. He wanted to know him, Anonymous. Be able to see him, and touch him, and- no. The desire was gone as quick as it had come, and Harry was left in a wake of his own self-hatred. The second Anonymous knew who Harry was, he wouldn't like him anymore. Or he would change, become crazed and annoyed that he had been writing Harry Potter. No, he couldn't know. Harry couldn't know. 

And besides, what if Anonymous was only fifteen years old? That would be awful. Three years wasn't a terrible age gap, but even so, it was odd to think that Harry had been writing a fifteen year old boy this whole time. It was rather uncomfortable to consider. Harry hoped he was seventeen at least, seeing as he himself was eighteen. He had to hope. 

Begrudgingly, Harry dragged himself off his chair and picked Hermione up off the couch. Carrying her sleeping form up the stairs was no easy task, as she kept rolling and mumbling about odd things in Harry's arms. Finally Harry picked up his wand, the discomfort of using magic having long since passed, and levitated her gently. 

"Parkinson," Harry hissed up the stairs to the girls dormitories. He wasn't fool enough to try to get up those steps, or to levitate Hermione all the way up there without bumping into her something. "Pansy!"

Parkinson's sleep rumpled form appeared at the top of the steps, looking thoroughly pissed off. 

"Did you just call me Pansy?" she asked, glaring down at him. 

"Er... yes?" Harry said, confused. 

Parkinson sniffed. "What do you want?"

"I can't carry Hermione up the stairs," Harry said quietly. "I don't know if the charm for the girls dormitories is still in place here, but I didn't want to risk it."

"That's oddly thoughtful," Parkinson said slowly before stomping down the stairs. "I can take her."

Parkinson reached out her arms, slumping with Hermione's weight when Harry shifted her into Parkinson's arms. 

"I got her," Parkinson whispered, smiling down at Hermione. 

Several things clicked at once for Harry. Pansy's and Hermione's closeness, Ron's noticeable absence, the strange look on Pansy's face, and Hermione's odd protectiveness. Harry reached out and rested his hand on Pansy's wrist before she could turn away. 

"Pansy," he said. "Take care of her."

Pansy looked at him with wide eyes before a small smile creeped up her mouth. "I will." She looked at him, and for the first time, Harry didn't resent her. For the war, or for Hermione. She was a girl, the same way he was a boy, and they were both doing their best. Pansy looked down at Hermione, and then back at him. "Goodnight, Harry."

 

_Hullo,_

_You're too good with words, really. Everything you write makes my heart pound. However, I would very much mind if you saw me vomiting and crying. Probably if you saw me at all. I mean, you've probably seen me, but it's different. Because when you see me, you don't know that it's me._

_You're not horrible or wrong, and I hope you're not miserable. You don't deserve to feel miserable. No matter what happened in the war, you don't deserve it. Everyone had to make choices, everyone made mistakes. You're not alone, and I hope you know that._

_I'll laugh, but only if it's with you, not at you. So you can laugh with me now after you read what I'm about to write._

_You are amazing. I know you and I see you and I want to be near you, even though I probably already am and I just don't know it._

_It's a little too late for me too._

_Love,_

_Anon._

 

"Pansy said that..." Hermione started.

"She didn't tell me anything. I don't know if you wanted it to be a secret," Harry muttered.

"It's not a secret." But Harry could see a clear blush through the curtain of hair Hermione was trying to hide behind. He brushed it carefully behind her shoulder. 

"Hermione," he said. 

"Yes?" she looked up at him nervously. Harry set his hands over hers, forcing her to set down the quill and ink she had been scribbling fiercely with. 

"I don't mind at all if you fancy Pansy Parkinson. You don't have to worry about what I think of her, or because she's a girl or anything. You know that right?" Harry looked directly at her, trying to make sure she understood. If Hermione was happy and Pansy was treating her right, then Harry would be happy to. 

"I don't know," Hermione looked down at where Harry's hands covered hers. "I just don't know. It was so confusing at first, having feelings for her when we had just become friends. And then it all happened so fast, and I didn't know what to do, or how to tell people, so I just... didn't."

"It's okay," Harry smiled softly. 

"I don't want you to be mad." Hermione pulled her hands away and turned back to her Defense Against the Dark Arts homework. 

"Why would I be mad?" Harry asked. 

Hermione swallowed thickly and stared down at the smeared letters on her parchment. Trembling hands fidgeted with the sleeve of her robes and her teeth worried at her bottom lip. Harry sighed sadly. He didn't want to see Hermione like this, so afraid and unsure of herself. Harry knew Hermione to be the one person who was always sure of herself no matter what.

"I'm not mad," Harry said. "Did you think I would be upset because she's a girl? Because it's Parkinson?” Hermione nodded slightly. "Well, I'm not. I don't care that it's Pansy, even if she was a git during the war." Hermione snorted and set her head down unhappily on top of her pages. This was going all wrong. 

Harry was again struck with the frustration of not being able to use the words he wanted when he needed them. He needed to tell Hermione this, that he was happy for her, and his thoughts and sentences were getting all jumbled. His stomach churned with panic and Harry fought to take a deep breath. He thought of Anonymous and his graceful letters, and how anything he said sounded just right. Harry thought of how when he wrote to Anonymous, his words seemed to turn out alright as well. All he needed was time. There was no need to rush. 

"I'm not upset," Harry repeated. "I'm happy for you. So happy. I can't even describe in words how glad I am that you're happy. I'm thrilled that it's Pansy because I know she's stubborn, and crazy, and passionate, just like you. And I know that because of all those things, she'll look after you and be good to you just like she should. I wish I knew how to tell you better than this, but... if you're happy and safe, then I'm okay. Then I'm good."

Hermione sat up and looked at him for a moment. Then she said, "You don't give yourself enough credit." And she leaned forward and gave him a big hug. 

"Now, I want to know everything," Harry grinned once Hermione let go of him. 

Hermione hesitated for a moment. "It's just that... Ron doesn't know."

Harry's breath left his body in one fell sweep. "What?"

"I didn't tell Ron," Hermione repeated. 

"Does he still think that you and him are dating?" Harry asked. He wasn't sure why he cared so much. Ron hadn't exactly been a stellar friend as of late, but then, neither had Harry. But even if Harry was still a little mad at Ron, and irritated that he hadn't tried to fix things with Harry, he wasn't comfortable with the idea of Hermione dating Pansy Parkinson without breaking up with Ron first. 

"I think so," Hermione said, a tear slipping loose of her eyelashes. "We've barely talked since the school year started."

"Okay."

"I feel like he knows," Hermione broke down in a tirade of tears. "I just feel so awful and disgusting."

"No, no," Harry said quickly. "You're not disgusting. But you do need to tell him."

"I know."

"Write him," Harry said and put his arms around Hermione. "Write him right now and just tell him everything. Don't put it off. I'll sit right here with you and mind my own business, and just be your emotional support. How does that sound?"

"I don't want to," Hermione sighed. She rubbed her hands across her face. "I have to. I will. Right now."

"Good," Harry nodded. 

So Harry sat and waited as Hermione wrote and cried, and sagged over her parchment. Three hours later, Hermione put the letter in a neat envelope and sent it off with a heavy breath. 

 

"Alright?" Harry asked her as they made their way down to dinner. Creamy scents of shepherd's pie wafted from the Great Hall and filled the hallways of the castle, filling Harry with the warm feeling of being home with his family. 

"I think so," Hermione smiled weakly. "I needed to do that. I feel like a weight has lifted off my shoulders."

"That's good," Harry put an arm around Hermione. 

"Thank you," Hermione said and patted Harry's arm gently. "It’s quite a shock for you to be the sensible one for once."

Harry laughed, a small laugh, but an earnest laugh. Amazing, it felt amazing to not have to fake it. When they sat down for dinner, Harry kissed Pansy on the cheek, and the three sat down for an obnoxious dinner of joking and teasing, a little bit of crying and some gag worthy hugs on Pansy and Hermione's part. Happiness slivered into Harry's heart, and he smiled. 

 

_Hello stranger,_

_I don't need to see you to know who you are. No matter what face you wear, I'm pretty sure I'll be just as happy._

_In discussion of the war, I do deserve it. Absolutely, without a doubt. If you knew who I was, you would agree. I wonder about that a lot. What you would think if you knew me. You're so concerned about who you are, and keeping your identity safe, but I think that you would be horrified if you knew me. I suppose it's best we keep this anonymous._

_I've never heard your laugh, but I love it. I love everything about you, even though I shouldn't. Is it terrible that I want to be able to touch you and know who you are, but I don't want you to know who I am? Maybe you feel the same way? I don't know what this is anymore. You're the only person I can talk to and be completely honest about myself and everything else. I wonder if that would be different if we were talking face to face. Somehow, I don't think it would._

_I'm sorry, I shouldn't say it, and I shouldn't feel it, but I think I love you._

~~_Love_~~ _Signed,_

_Anonymous_

 

Harry went to sleep feeling elated and off kilter. _But I think I love you._ No one has loved him like that before. Or like how he hoped. Romantically. Anonymous had brought so many firsts into his life. _Never like that_ firsts. In ways he couldn't have imagined. That's how Harry knew it was real. Even his overblown imagination couldn't make this up. _I love everything about you_.

So he goes to sleep feeling too full of something too good. The next morning, Harry woke up and went to breakfast as he always did. Hermione was an early riser, always at breakfast before him, and Pansy, Harry had recently learned, never woke up before nine in the morning, which presented some difficulties in getting to class on time seeing as class started at exactly nine in the morning. So they never really ate breakfast together, which was fine by Harry. He was used to being alone, and now that him and Pansy were cautious friends, he was constantly surrounded by never ending chatter and debate from both her and Hermione. The quiet in the mornings served as a relaxing break. 

Harry’s first hint that something was wrong was that both Hermione and Pansy were awake and sitting in their usual spot in the Great Hall. The two were whispering furiously, and both of them looked angrier than offended hippogriffs. Pansy’s face was rapidly turning a bright shade of red and Hermione’s eyes were slanted in an awful glare. Harry stood in the entrance of the Great Hall staring into the horror that was the Great Hall. No one seemed to notice Pansy’s and Hermione’s argument. 

This was Harry’s second hint. 

No one was paying any attention to Pansy and Hermione because all of the students were looking closely at Harry. Some looked suspicious, others were whispering closely together and sending Harry occasional glances. All of them looked horrified on some level. 

Hermione caught Harry’s eye and pointed aggressively towards him. Pansy whirled, her face crumpling at the sight of him before she said one last thing to Hermione and then stalked off. She didn’t even look at him when she brushed by. 

“Pansy?” called Harry as she disappeared around the corner. There was no response. 

Harry turned back to the Great Hall, only to be met with a hurling force of dark skin and bushy brown hair. Hermione snatched up Harry’s hand and dragged him out of the Great Hall. 

“You don’t want to be in there,” she hissed, hauling him down corridors and staircases. 

“Hermione? What’s going on?” Harry asked, bewildered. 

“I trusted her!” Hermione was muttering. “I _liked_ her!”

“Hermione!” Harry said. 

She dragged them into the library and back into Harry’s favorite corner. Hermione pushed him down into his chair and stood before him with her arms crossed. Her hair stood around her face in frizzy clumps, brown eyes narrowed viciously, and her body stood straight and rigid. 

“I need you to stay calm,” Hermione gritted out. 

Harry stared up at her and raised an eyebrow. “I am calm.”

“When I tell you this,” Hermione continued. 

“What is it Hermione?”

“Don’t say anything until I’ve explained all of it, okay?” Hermione said. 

“Okay,” Harry said impatiently and waved her on. 

“Your letters got leaked.” Harry stared at Hermione blankly. “Someone found your letters, or your pen pal passed them around or I don’t know! Every letter you wrote has been copied and is now circulating around school.” 

“How do people know they’re mine?” Harry said, his voice still void of emotion. Ice crept through his veins slowly. 

“Well, they didn’t…” Hermione said slowly. “But then, Seamus recognized your handwriting, and you know how loud he is. It was only a couple minutes, and then the whole school knew.” Hermione’s posture sagged in defeat. “This is all my fault.”

Harry’s eyes pierced the book shelves across from him coldly. 

“I didn’t know,” Hermione said desperately. 

“I don't think it was Pansy,” Harry said flatly. 

“But Harry-”

“It was him. He was leading me on, I-” Harry choked on his words and swallowed hard, trying to regain his composure. “It was too good to be true. I shouldn’t have let myself fall for it. I shouldn’t have let myself fall for _him_.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. Something hovered on the verge of her lips but she pursed her lips tightly and Harry knew that whatever she was going to say, she wouldn’t say it now. 

But it didn’t matter. 

Harry shouldn’t have believed that this could be real, or good, or anything. In fact, he shouldn’t have agreed to it at all. But he had, and he had let himself be humiliated, he had let himself believe that it could be true. 

But it wasn’t. 

None of it was true. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote more than double my usual amount of words for this chapter so I hope you like it!  
> We’re really getting into the thick of the angst now!


	12. Pansy

Draco would be coming back to Hogwarts today. Pansy had no idea how to tell him about... this. This disaster that had occurred while he was away. He had barely been away at all. He had said it was because he didn't want to leave Pansy at Hogwarts alone for the holidays, but she knew it was about his anonymous pen pal. Harry. Agatha, if only he knew who it was. Agatha, if only he knew what had happened. 

It wouldn't be long now. The train was just pulling into the station and Pansy held her body stiffly, trying to hold the anxiety and nervousness tightly inside her body. When he stepped off the train, a white ray of sunlight bounced off his head and nearly blinded the tears right out of her. His hair was slicked back, as he had just come home from Malfoy Manor. Draco had worn it loose this whole year, and in Pansy's opinion it looked rather nice that way. The slicked back look didn't suit him very well unless he was trying to pull of the 'I'm Lucius Malfoy's evil son' look, which Draco never was. Never was trying to pull off that look, and never was Lucius Malfoy's evil son.

Draco grinned at Pansy when he caught sight of her, but Pansy couldn't even let a tiny smile slip. At least Draco's letters hadn't gotten leaked. As soon as she thought it, Pansy regretted it. Harry didn't deserve this, and he could leak the letter's Draco had written in retaliation if he wanted, even if Harry didn't actually know that they were Draco's letters. Pansy hoped that Potter was as decent of a person as she thought he was. 

"Draco," Pansy hugged him tightly and he smiled, setting down his eagle owl, Ramona, in her cage.

"Pansy! Why the long face? Didn't get the presents you wanted this year?" He looked happy and bright. Pansy couldn't tell him and ruin this rare beauty in him. But if she didn't tell him now, he would surely find out in some gruesome way from someone else. There was no avoiding the truth. 

"Draco, there's something I have to tell you," Pansy said forcefully before she could think about it too hard. 

"What?" The open on his look had not yet disappeared. His face was still hanging onto happiness like he'd been frozen just before the punchline of a very good joke. 

"Something bad happened while you were gone," Pansy said and picked up Ramona's cage. 

"I was only gone for three days," Draco smiled, but hesitancy reigned in his voice. 

"I know."

"What happened?" Draco demanded. It was gone, all that goodness and freedom. Back into the depths of Draco Malfoy's soul, not to return until the next blue moon. 

"Someone leaked the letters," Pansy said. She gritted her teeth and looked at Draco sideways. 

Draco went white immediately, but his steps didn't falter. "What?" His voice was hoarse and deadly quiet. 

"Not yours," Pansy desperately. "Your pen pal's. I don't know, someone must have found them and thought it would be funny to pass them around school. But everyone here has seen them. Not yours," Pansy repeated. 

"Do you think it matters if it's mine or theirs?" Draco asked, his voice deadly. 

"No, of course not," Pansy said. "It's terrible either way."

Draco stopped walking and stared at Pansy. Something unrecognizable stirred in his eyes and Pansy took a tiny step back.

"You don't understand," Draco said. "Anything he said, I received. Anything he answered to, I asked. His words are mine. My words are his."

"Draco, I understand," Pansy reached out to touch Draco's arm, but he jerked away. 

"Does anyone know who the letters belong to?" Draco asked. He resumed walking, his pace brisk and vicious. 

"No one knows that they were yours, except for whoever leaked them, I suppose." Pansy shrugged. "But for whatever reason, that information has not been leaked. So you're in the clear."

"I'm NOT in the clear!" Draco bellowed, his simmering anger finally getting the better of him. His cool demeanor vanished, replaced by a terrible sadness and anger. "Don't you understand? This was supposed to be for  _me_. Not for the whole bloody school!"

Draco grabbed the owl cage out of Pansy's hands and dragged it and his trunk up to the school, leaving Pansy far behind. 

 

The next several weeks passed in an unpleasant flurry, and Pansy watched her world go down in flames. 

Hermione wouldn't speak to her, or even look at her. Anytime she was in proximity to Pansy, she simply flicked her hair and flounced away angrily. Pansy thought Hermione must have assumed that Pansy was the one who had released the letters. Or that Draco had released them, and Pansy had known about it. Or maybe she thought that both Pansy and Draco had been plotting this since the very beginning. None of those were true. In fact, Pansy wanted desperately to know which imbecilic student had leaked those letters and gotten away with it. She had already planned out several locations to hide the body. 

But the truth was that Pansy missed Hermione. She was crazy and neurotic and bossy sometimes, but she was lovely in a way that was all her own. Rich dark hair clouding around the beautiful, blushed skin of her face. Muggle clothes on the weekends and cuddling on the couch in the mornings. Pansy missed Hermione's body beside her, and she missed her constant debating and researching. 

The last time she had seen her had been in Potions class last Tuesday. 

"Hermione!" Pansy had tried to shove her way into the seat next to her. 

"Go away," Hermione had said flatly. Pansy had ignored her, sliding into the seat next to her and pushing closer. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"Parkinson," Harry's voice was low behind her. Pansy swiveled to stare up at him. He looked down at where she sat and gestured for her to move. He didn't glare or make any comments, and it was frightening how emotionless he was. Pansy got up slowly and turned to sit at a seat in the back, alone. Harry took her place and carefully set his things out. He didn't look back at her, but Pansy figured he was hardly focused on something as trivial as her supposed betrayal right now. The betrayal was not hers to him. But to Hermione, this was personal. This betrayal was  _all_ about Pansy. Hermione looked over her shoulder, and then whirled back around when she caught Pansy's eyes. 

She missed Hermione. This wasn't Pansy's fault, and it was unfair of Hermione to think so lowly of her. But she told no one. As Harry had been Draco's secret, Hermione had been hers. 

 

Harry looked an absolute wreck. His usually deep toned skin was gray, and his eyes were ringed raggedly with red and dark circles. His hair stuck out in tufts, no longer confident and Quidditch glazed. Pansy hadn't seen him in the library at all recently, and he was never anywhere to be found in the common room. It was a miracle he was going to classes and showing up for meals at all. 

When other students looked at him, they whispered and giggled. When Hermione looked at him, she glanced away before she could dwell on how thin he was. 

Pansy saw him around in the hallways, drifting like a ghost that couldn't stop reliving how he'd died. Unlike Hermione, Harry wasn't avoiding her. He was untouchable in the sense that there was no speaking to him, no brushing his arm. He stared at her awfully if she came too close, but his pain was elsewhere. 

 

And then there was Draco. After blowing up at her when he had returned from the holidays, Draco had quickly come back and apologized profusely. Pansy hadn't accepted any apologies because it was his right to be upset, and hers as well. Pansy had known Draco for more than ten years, and never in her life had she seen this much pain, loss, and longing in his eyes.

It hadn't taken long for someone to jokingly tell Draco who his pen pal was, without knowing that Draco had been on the other side of the owl. Harry Potter. Draco had looked at Parvati when she'd snickered and then looked down and walked away. He didn't look surprised, nor did he look as if he had expected it all along. 

Pansy heard crying from behind his curtains when she went into his dorm later that night. She wasn't sure if it was because the person he had fallen in love with was Harry Potter, or if it was because this boy had been hurt at his expense. Or maybe it was because this one thing was supposed to be his all along, and then it had been taken in hardly a blink. 

Draco sent dozens of letters to Harry, with no reciprocation. Of course, Pansy had no idea of the contents, but it didn't take much thought to imagine what Draco might've written. But she knew that Draco wouldn't give up his own identity. He wasn't ready for all of that. Harry knowing who he was, the rest of the school knowing, and him realizing that Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter would never work.

 

In some ways, Pansy thought, this had been her fault. She had come up with the idea, she had set up the letters, and taught the owls how to send the messages. She had kick started what she had only wanted to be civility, and it had turned into love. And then someone had taken that and ripped it all up. 

 

But after all, the world did not hand out blessings like candy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies this chapter was so short! Another chapter should be coming quicker than this one.


	13. Draco

Draco stared up at the ceiling of his dorm room and tried not to throw up. This couldn't be real. It simply wasn't. 

Harry Potter. 

Oh Merlin. 

Draco rolled over onto his side and stared at the empty vodka bottle in front of his face. Had he really drank that whole thing on his own? It seemed so, and he did feel terribly woozy, but he honestly couldn't remember drinking the whole bottle. 

Harry Potter. Of course it was him. The universe liked to take things away from Draco. 

He had hoped desperately that out of everything he had been through, this could be good. This could work. He hadn't started writing letters intending to fall in love. In fact, he hadn't even wanted to be friends with Anon. But then he had. And then everything he said had been perfect and sweet and filled with shattering honesty. And one day Draco was still alone, and the next he was in love. It wasn't supposed to happen, it wasn't supposed to happen. 

Draco burped. 

And then things had looked up, and beauty had filled his eyes. And he had turned for one second. One second. And it was gone. 

Harry Potter.

It should've been anyone else. Because maybe, if it had been someone else they would've learned to love him somehow. If their letters had been leaked, Draco would have come forward and tried to help them and love them, and maybe they wouldn't kick him out on his ass. No, that was wishful thinking. Students kicked him in the halls. No one would learn to love him. 

But did it have to be Potter? Beautiful Potter with his wild hair, and dark skin, and lovely eyes. Did it have to be someone so unattainable? Someone so widely sought out by every girl in the country? Of course. 

Potter. It was always him. Everywhere Draco turned, Harry Potter was there, standing him down. 

"Draco?"

"Go away, Theo," Draco slurred. 

He turned away from the vodka bottle and stared at his curtains. Silvery gray, kind of like Draco's eyes. He felt sick. He wondered if Harry Potter's curtains were green like his eyes, or if they were red like his House. They were probably gray like everyone else's. 

"Draco." His curtains ripped open and Draco blinked up at Theodore Nott. 

"What?" Draco asked. 

"Are you crying?" Theo looked taken aback. 

Draco didn't think he had been crying, but when he lifted his fingertips up to his cheeks, they came away wet. Odd. 

"Pansy and Blaise and I think you need to get out of bed," Theo said and crossed his arms. 

"I can't," Draco said. 

"Were you- Draco, were you  _drinking?"_

"Yes." Draco didn't even try to deny it. The air reeked of alcohol and there was an empty bottle right by his face. It was very unbecoming of a Malfoy, but some Malfoy he was anyhow. His father hadn't thought he was much of a Malfoy when he had disinherited him after finding out Draco was gay. Thank Merlin for his mother. Draco didn't know he would've survived this year without her. 

"Get out of bed," Theo said again. 

Draco tried, and promptly blacked out. 

 

When he woke later, he was sitting in the shower with his clothes still on and a very irritated Pansy glaring down at him. 

"Pansy?" Draco's voice was less slurred, but he still felt like shit. 

Pansy sighed, turned the water off, and knelt down at the edge of the tub. 

"Oh, Draco," she said, "you're a mess."

Draco looked away. He didn't know how to think anymore. Not when he was in love with Harry Potter. Not when Harry Potter thought that Draco had destroyed him. Not when Harry Potter didn't know who he was. 

And then of course there was the fact that his father had gotten off with only house arrest after everything he had done. After the years of hitting and shouting. And then the Dark Lord. And his mother, his mother had gotten trapped in that dreadful manor right along with him. Draco wanted this year to be over. He didn't want to go to school anymore, and he didn't want to think about his father anymore, and he didn't want to be in love with Potter. 

How to think when one didn't want to think of anything at all?

Draco leaned his back and closed his eyes, and then he spoke without really meaning to. Once he had begun, he didn't know how to stop. 

"I told him I loved him," Draco said desperately to Pansy. "I wrote without knowing it was Harry bloody Potter, and I told him that I was in love with him. I told him everything about me. My parents, my hurt, the war, the laughs, and stupid stuff. I told him about books. My books, the only things that got me through the war. And Merlin, his responses were precious. And I didn't know it was  _him._

"I don't know what to do anymore. I know who he is, and I want him to know who I am. I wanted to know me before any of this awfulness even happened. But it's  _me_ , and he's  _him_."

"Draco," Pansy said before he could continue. "He already loves you, even if he doesn't know it's you. You know that, right?" 

Draco shook his head. "He hasn't responded to any of the letters I've sent him after his letters were leaked. I think he thinks that I was the one who released them."

"Then tell him you weren't!" Pansy exclaimed. 

"Why are you so adamant about me revealing my identity?" Draco asked, confused. Pansy turned a bright shade of red and anger rose up in Draco. "You know I haven't wanted to since the beginning!"

"It's Hermione," Pansy said in a small voice. 

Draco stopped, the anger vanishing instantly. "Hermione Granger?" he whispered and Pansy nodded. 

Pansy Parkinson fancied Hermione Granger? Is that what she was trying to tell him? 

This really was a proper mess. 

 

"Draco Malfoy!" Blaise grinned at the breakfast table several days later. Draco hardly looked up. "I heard you got smashed in the dorms a couple days ago. Why didn't you invite me?"

Draco glared at him and turned away. 

Why was he friends with Blaise again? He could've sworn they weren't close the rest of the time Draco had been at Hogwarts. Why now?

 

Hermione Granger was striding up to him, a pissed off look etched into her face. When she reached him, she grabbed him by the arm and dragged him down the corridor. 

"I know it's you," she said, shoving him into an empty classroom. 

"What's me?" Draco was so, so tired. He couldn't sleep anymore these days. Mother had moved out of the Manor this weekend, and his father had gone on a rampage, tearing apart everything on their property. His books were gone. All but  _A Tale of Two Cities_ , which he had taken to Hogwarts with him after break. How ironic. 

"You're Anonymous," Hermione said. 

Draco narrowed his eyes. "Did you leak his letters?"

"No, you imbecile!" Hermione rolled her eyes. "I set up the letters with Pansy!"

"So what do you want?"

"Did you do it? Did Pansy? Leak the letters?"

Draco sagged back into a desk. "No. Really? No-  _no._ Of course I didn't."

Hermione simply huffed and stormed out of the classroom. She probably didn't believe him. No one ever did. 

 

"Hey, Draco," Longbottom said a week later. "We haven't hung out since this summer! Did you want to come with me to the greenhouses later? Hannah couldn't come."

"Leave me alone," Draco snapped and stormed away. 

Had they really become friends over the summer? It felt like a dream. It probably was. 

 

"Hullo, Draco."

Draco's stomach swooped sadly. Harry had written  _hullo_ to him so many times, but it wasn't the same voice.

"Hello, Luna."

Luna was maybe the only person Draco couldn't be cruel to at this point. Everyone else could be pushed away, but she was too good. Besides, she wasn't part of this disaster and there was no need for her to get pulled into Draco's problems. 

"Hermione says you're looking awful these days," Luna sidled up to him and patted his shoulder idly. 

"I don't care what Granger says about me," Draco said, and abruptly moved away from Luna. 

"We're all thinking it," Luna said sadly. "You and Harry. Harry and you."

Draco looked at her. At her tangled blonde waves, the pale blue of her eyes, and the faintest smattering of freckles across her nose.

Harry and you. You and Harry. 

Draco stared down at the ground. He couldn't bring himself to glance up again. 

"I know," Luna said. "I don't think Harry does, but I can see it. It's killing you, Draco. Don't you think you should just tell him?"

I should, Draco thought. I should, and just let whatever happens happen. 

 

But he couldn't. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for another short chapter! Hope you enjoyed!


	14. Harry

Harry had forgotten what it felt like to be truly sick. To constantly feel like he was about to vomit, or pass out, or both at the same time. He remembered now, vividly. 

"Harry?" Hermione said hesitantly. Harry nodded slightly. "I messed up."

"You never mess up," Harry groaned. 

"I did this time," Hermione whispered. Something in her voice sounded off and Harry looked up at her quickly. 

Hermione's face was red and blotchy and swollen with tear tracks. Her hair stood out in awkward puffs and a small stack of papers was clutched in her hands. 

"Your pen pal didn't leak your letters. Pansy didn't leak your letters. God," Hermione rubbed her face, "I screwed up so badly. Pansy's mad at me, with good reason! You're terrible and withdrawn, and I just want it to all go back to before. Just before. When you were happy and everyone was okay and the world didn't seem to need us for one second."

"Hermione," Harry said slowly. "What are you on about?"

Honestly, it was three in the morning. Harry would have very much liked to curl back up in his standard covers and go back to his pessimistic self evaluation. 

“Here,” Hermione said, and held out the papers in her hands. 

“What are they?” Harry didn’t want to read anything. Not anymore. 

“Letters,” Hermione said. She seemed to sense that he wasn’t going to take them out of her hands, so she simply set them down on his quilt covered lap and tiptoed out. Just before she exited the dorm, she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Harry sat and stared at the papers for awhile after Hermione left. Why would he want to read any letters? After everything that had happened, his pen pal hadn’t sent him anything. No letters, no apologies, no nothing. What was Harry to do, except assume that his pen pal had been the one to leak the letters in the first place?

But eventually, the pull was too strong. 

If there was even a hope, the slightest hope, that his pen pal had written him… It was horrible and sadistic that even now, the one thing Harry longed for the most was just one more word from Anonymous. 

He was in luck. 

 

_Harry,_

_It’s so strange to be writing to you now that I know who you are, and yet, it almost feels as if nothing has changed. I shouldn’t have written that, I’m sorry._

_Merlin, I’m sorry._

_I didn’t do this. I promise._

_Why would you believe me? We haven’t properly met._

_Signed,_

_Anonymous_

 

Harry swallowed down a bout of nausea. Anonymous knew who he was. Of course, logically he had known this, but knowing this theoretically was different than seeing the curling letters of Harry’s name written in Anonymous’ handwriting. Harry hated how much he loved it. 

Hermione said Anonymous didn’t release the letters. He wanted to believe her so badly. 

 

_Harry,_

_You hate me, I’m sure. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You know when you say one thing over and over again, and after awhile, the word blends together so much you hardly know what it means? That’s what this feels like, except every blend feels like a stab to the gut._

_I miss you._

_Signed,_

_Anonymous_

 

It was too much. His words overloaded Harry’s senses. 

 

_Harry,_

_I meant what I said. About loving you. Except then, I was just falling in love with you, and now it feels like I’m still falling, but not in a good way. I can’t even imagine how you feel right now._

_I know I should just reach out to you. Tell you the truth. But I’m scared._

_The truth is, I feel so much better telling you these things when you don't know who I am. Truth is, you would hate me if you knew me, and I don't want that. It’s so desperately selfish, and I know it, but I don't want it._

_I want to hold on to this illusion that you might like me for as long as I can._

_Of course, everything’s gone all wrong, and you don't like me anyhow._

_Signed,_

_Anonymous_

 

He still loved Harry, even though he knew who he was. Doubt crept into Harry’s stomach. Did he still love Harry, or did he love the idea of Harry Potter? The boy or the fame?

The fame. 

It was always the fame. 

Harry picked up the next letter. 

 

_Harry,_

_I know you don't want to talk to me, but I can’t help myself from writing to you._

_Remember when I told you about the book_ Carry On _? By Rainbow Rowell. It’s a Muggle book, just like all the other ones I’ve given to you. Did you read it? There’s a boy in it named Simon. He’s just like you. Perfect, and golden, and human, and wonderful. I’m the other one, Basilton._

_Maybe in some other world, our story paralleled theirs. Maybe in an alternate universe, we got a chance._

_Love,_

_Anonymous_

 

Harry had not, in fact, read the book. What with the flurry of the holidays and then the release of the letters, Harry had not much time recently to read the books that Anonymous told him about. 

 

_Harry,_

_Harry Potter. Everytime I write your name, I say it out loud. Just barely. I simply whisper it under my breath, and smile._

_I have no right to be writing to you anymore._

_Anonymous_

 

_Harry,_

_Sorry. I’m so sorry._

_I want to meet you, and introduce myself. I don't know how._

_Anonymous_

 

_Harry,_

_I wonder if you’re getting these letters. Granger keeps glaring at me, and I saw her the other day holding a piece of paper with my handwriting on it. (She knows who I am)._

_I don't think you’re getting any of these things I write you._

_It’s probably for the best._

_Anonymous_

 

_Harry,_

...

_Anonymous_

 

_Harry,_

_I just wanted to write your name. I’m sorry._

_Do I need to sign Anonymous anymore?_

 

_Harry_

 

The last piece of parchment simply held Harry’s name, and nothing else. Tucked in underneath it was a tiny parcel that had _Merry Christmas_ scrawled across the top. Harry’s fingers crawled under the edge of the wrapping and peeled it back slowly. Under the wrappings, a book slowly emerged. 

 _A Tale of Two Cities_. 

It wasn’t a new copy by any means. In fact, it looked like it had been worn in by several decades of use with softened corners and pages shedding pulp and letters. Awe swelled in Harry, replacing and ebbing away the sickness. He held his breath and opened the cover reverently. There was no note inside it, nor any indication of who this book had belonged to, although it was clearly well loved. 

Harry’s breath caught in his throat just at the sheer magnitude of the thoughtfulness of the gesture, and he held the book close to his chest. The edges of it pressed softly into his palms and the sweet scent of old books and slight lemon wafted up into Harry’s face. 

It was so clearly Anonymous’, that it hurt. 

Who was he? Who was he?

Harry held the book tightly to his chest, and cried. He let tears slip down his face, silent in between gasping breaths, and after awhile, he fell asleep. 

 

The next day brought an argument. 

“Did you stop me from getting those letters?” Harry asked Hermione. 

Chatter filled up the space around them, the familiar clinking of the Great Hall swirling into the morning. An uneaten plate of toast sat in between Harry and Hermione. Harry stared at Hermione, and Hermione looked into her lap. 

“I’m sorry,” was all she said. 

“Did you read them?” Harry demanded. Hermione didn’t respond. 

Harry folded his napkin tightly and set it down on top of his empty plate. 

“I asked you, no, I _told_ you not to read any of my letters. Not to get involved!” Harry said. 

Hermione still didn’t look up. She simply stared at her lap. 

Pansy Parkinson walked by haughtily, her nose and chin held up nastily at Hermione. Hermione, of course, noticed, and she leaped up immediately, still not looking at Harry. 

“Pansy!” Hermione called, chasing her down the Hall. Hermione’s voice carried, slowly drawing faces and attention to herself. She didn’t notice, and continued calling after Pansy. “I shouldn’t have said all those things! I know you didn’t do it-”

Pansy whirled around, her eyes livid. “You know I didn’t do it? How grand! Now that there’s proof, suddenly you believe me? Suddenly you’re in love with me again? That’s bullshit,” Pansy spat and whirled on her heel, continuing on her path towards Malfoy. 

“I was just worried about Harry!”

“What about me?” Pansy snarled without turning around. “You weren’t worried about me! What about how you thought I lied to you? Or tricked you? Or how you didn’t trust me AT ALL!”

“But-” 

Harry pushed himself up from the table as fast as he could and grabbed Hermione’s arm. Every eye was on them, and Harry wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor where no one could see him ever again. Harry tightened his hold on Hermione’s warm arm, and pulled her back to their seat. Harry pushed her into her seat and stared down at her. 

A million words rose up in Harry. Words at the tip of his tongue that had never been there before. Phrases and jokes, reassurances, apologies. Anything. It was all there. 

But all Harry said was, “I’ll see you in class, ‘Mione.”

 

He did see her in class. And they ate dinner together in silence in the Great Hall. Pansy and Hermione got into another shouting match, which lasted considerably longer than the last one. Nearly half an hour, actually, which gave the rest of the student body and staff ample reason to evacuate the Great Hall as quickly as possible. The argument resulted in Pansy breaking down in tears, and Hermione screaming so loudly, she turned purple. 

The whole thing was dreadful. Every intake before a breath was a pinprick before a stab wound, and it killed Harry. Pansy didn’t cause this, Anonymous didn’t cause this, and even Hermione hadn’t caused this. 

Bad things happened sometimes. 

It was just that Harry didn’t want to be around those things anymore. He had no plans to become an Auror or fight evil until the end of his days. Frankly, he had no plans at all. He was supposed to be dead by now, and what other careers did the wizarding world offer anyways?

As everything always was, the screaming was too much. The thinking was too much. 

Harry stuffed the copy of _Carry On_ he had gotten from Flourish and Blotts into his bag and fled from the Great Hall, where only a few stubborn stragglers remained witness to Hermione and Pansy’s showdown. 

Harry didn’t know where his feet were taking him, only that they were taking him, and he felt sick and cold. Cold. 

Bathroom. He was in a bathroom. Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, to be more specific, and someone was crying. Harry edged around the corner of the stalls, and saw a shock of white blonde hair slumped over on the floor. 

Draco Malfoy. 

Harry stopped breathing. Not again, not again.

Malfoy’s head lifted up, and he stared at Harry like a deer in headlights. 

“Sorry,” Harry whispered. He meant it as a sorry for now, seeing him here like this. Sorry for that time in sixth year when he ripped him to shreds. A tear tipped over Draco’s eyelashes and sliced his face in pieces. Not again.

“No need to stare at me like that,” Malfoy sniffed and looked away. “We might as well do it differently this time around.”

Harry nodded to himself, and then, without knowing why, Harry sat next to Malfoy. Close enough that their shoulders brushed, although nothing else did. 

“Tell me something,” Malfoy said. There was something strange in his voice. Something a little more gentle than Harry was used to, but he sighed and sat. Not again. He wouldn’t let it happen again. “Anything to stop me thinking.”

Harry didn’t need an explanation for this. He knew what it meant to want your thoughts to just cease to keep on trailing and circling. 

“I fell in love with someone,” Harry said, almost jokingly, saying the first thing that came to mind. The pain rose easily up inside him, pressing up against every barrier in Harry. He had fallen in love with someone he hadn’t met. How screwed up was that?

Malfoy’s eyes widened as he stared at Harry, and his eyes were different. Harry relaxed next to Draco Malfoy, and marveled at how for the first time since the war ended, Harry felt genuinely at ease. And sitting next to Malfoy, of all people!

So Harry told him the whole story. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t heard about it all ready. Copies of Harry’s letters had been all over the school, so there was no way Malfoy hadn’t seen or heard about it. He had probably been the one to make the copies and have a good laugh with his friends about it. Maybe even Pansy, Harry thought. 

“So, in the end, writing the letters wasn’t so bad after all. Actually, it was brilliant,” Harry said. Why was he telling this all to Malfoy? He didn’t know, but not again. Not again. He couldn’t let history repeat itself. “Last time I heard from, he told me he loved me.”

Harry leaned back into the stall door, resting his head back. Malfoy said something too quietly for Harry to hear.

“What?”

“I do,” Malfoy said. 

“You do what?” Harry said, closing his eyes. 

“I do love you.”

Silence. No response. Icy warmth crept through Harry’s blood. Harry said nothing. 

Several things clicked into place. Pansy and Hermione’s friendship and conspiring, their exclusiveness. Their insistence that he writes the letters, their investment in what he wrote. The argument, and the blaming about who had leaked the letters. 

Harry didn’t believe Draco Malfoy had leaked his letters. 

It was him. After all this time, and anger, and hurt. After books, and stumbling words, and reliving experiences of the war Harry wanted nothing more than to forget. And this was it. The face behind the person. 

“I didn’t know you read Muggle books,” Harry whispered after a long time. 

“I didn’t know you loved treacle tart so much.”

Malfoy, no, it was Draco now. Without a doubt. It was him. It had to be him. It was the only thing that made sense, and if Malfoy was just pulling a trick on him, Harry thought he might actually lose every last bit of his sanity. This was all he had left that belonged to him and no one else. 

Don't ruin this, he tried to tell Draco with his eyes. 

Don't ruin this, Harry told himself. 

Draco’s head turned slowly, the hard gray of his eyes peering up at Harry through his eyelashes cautiously. Blonde hair waved over Draco’s forehead. Draco’s face was close, very close. Harry had never known it, but he had little invisible freckles sprawled across his nose and cheeks like tiny stars. Each one out of sight until you reached a little closer, looked a little clearer. 

Beautiful. 

Harry didn’t know if it was because he just wanted to believe this was real. Harry didn’t know if it was because he had already fallen in love with this boy over letter. Harry didn’t know if it was because his two worlds were crashing together, and Draco Malfoy was surprisingly beautiful. Unconventional, odd, pointy, and beautiful. 

Harry leaned in a little closer, and then his whole arm was pressed up against Draco’s. He waited. He could feel Draco’s breath skimming across his face. Draco. 

Draco leaned in a little closer, and then his side was pressed up against Harry’s rib cage. Their eyelashes mingled together, and Harry breathed out a sigh of relief from the closeness and the strange familiarity of it. 

There was nothing weird or scary about this. Being so close to another boy’s face, Draco’s face, held all the anticipation of standing on the verge of a cliff, and all the comfort of being close with someone you had already been intimate with. 

Draco kissed him. 

Lights blistered behind Harry’s eyelids. Draco’s mouth was warm, and full, and soft. So soft. Careful. Harry kissed him back just as cautiously. 

Happiness rose in Harry’s stomach and he smiled against Draco’s mouth. Draco’s fingertips trailed up Harry’s stomach over his school sweater, and Harry blushed. Harry’s hand cupped Draco’s cheek and slid up into his hair, which curled around Harry’s knuckles. Draco pushed close, impossibly close, and then broke away.

His face was flushed and still miraculously near to Harry’s face. Harry inhaled sweet lemon and combed his fingers through Draco’s hair again and again and again. 

“I didn’t release those letters,” Draco said. 

“I know,” Harry whispered back. 

“I’m sorry for everything. Ever since I met you.” Draco didn’t move away, but his eyes broke away from Harry’s. 

“Me too,” Harry said and Draco looked back up at Harry. “It’s a new chance, right?”

Draco nodded, a smile spreading across his face. He had a little dimple in his right cheek. “A new chance.”

  
  
  



	15. Hermione

Hermione's brain never shut down. Well, it didn't normally, but especially now. 

Harry. She thought about Harry constantly. Was he okay? Was he coping? It seemed as if he and Draco had figured it out, seeing as they were practically attached at the hip these days. Anytime she saw Harry, Draco wasn't far behind, saying something or laughing or linking pinkies. It was unnerving. Hermione didn't understand it. There was so many things she didn't understand. But much of the time she could theoretically understand it, she just had to find the answer. Except Harry was hardly talking to her, and there was no way for her to know. She just had to sit and wait in the dark. It was driving her mad. 

Then there was Pansy. Lovely, snappy Pansy. Pansy had glared at first, but she didn't even bother to look in Hermione's direction anymore. It sent a sharp pain through Hermione's chest every time she saw Pansy. Her sweeping chin length hair, slanted eyes, pale skin, dark lipstick. Pansy was completely in the right, of course. Hermione should've trusted her, should've trusted herself to make the right decisions. She had always struggled with trusting herself. Hermione questioned every decision, every move, every breath. Her decisions regarding Pansy had been no different, but Pansy didn't know that. Part of Hermione wished Pansy would never speak to her again, simply so she wouldn't have to explain herself. How was she supposed to explain her actions when she didn't even know why she had done them?

And Ron. Oh, Ron. Any time his name or a flash of his red hair crossed Hermione's mind, she nearly collapsed. She had been in love with him. Completely head over heels. How had that changed? Hermione didn't want it to change. She had liked loving Ron. He made everything fun, and he made her happy, and Merlin, Hermione was so confused. Why couldn't things have stayed easy? 

There had been no response from Ron to the letter Hermione had sent. She hadn't really been expecting one, but she had hoped just a little that Ron would write back. She knew he was mad. There was no way he couldn't be. Hermione was mad. Not at Ron, but at herself. She had brought this upon all of them. 

Harry's hurt with Draco, Ron's hurt with Hermione, Pansy's hurt with Hermione, Hermione's hurt for all of them. All of this could've been avoided if she had simply decided not to set up anonymous letters for Harry. Or better yet, if Hermione had decided to not go at school at all, and simply take her N.E.W.T.s privately. 

None of this would have ever happened. 

Hermione gripped her hair and closed her eyes tighter. There was no one here. No one but Hermione and her ghosts. 

"Hermione?" Harry called. Hermione forced her slumped body to swivel on the stool she was sitting on. Draco was unsurprisingly standing close at Harry's side. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Hermione said. 

Harry exchanged a look with Draco. 

The two of them contrasted nicely, Hermione thought. She didn't know what had gone on between them or how they had found out who each others' identities, but whatever had happened must have gone well. Harry had begun laughing a little again, and Draco's pale skin had gone from dead white to pinkish again fairly quickly. It had started off casual, as far as Hermione could see. They had acted as cautious friends, and then best friends, and then all of a sudden, one was never seen without the other. It had only been three months since the two had started hanging out. It had been four since the letters had been leaked, and four since Hermione had sent Ron the letter. 

"Granger," Draco said quietly. 

Hermione's head snapped up to stare at him. "Hermione," she corrected.

"Hermione," he said. "Harry just asked you if you'd like to go down for tea this afternoon."

"With Hagrid?" Hermione asked, staring down at the ground. 

"Actually," Harry said, "it might be best for you to stay here."

"What? No!" Hermione leaped to her feet and swayed precariously. "I'm perfectly fine. Let's go see Hagrid."

Harry shook his head. "You look like shit."

"How eloquent," Hermione sneered. The drama of her tone was slightly lost as she trembled her way back onto the backless stool by the common room fire. Had she been here all night? She must've. Her back hurt like she had been. 

"What Harry's saying," Draco's mouth softened around Harry's name, "is that you haven't slept in a week."

"I have, too!" Hermione protested. Had she really? She knew memory loss was a side effect of sleep deprivation, anxiety, and depression. Depression, no. She didn't know that. Anxiety, on the other hand. Had she slept recently? 

"Go to sleep, Hermione," Harry sighed. 

She was tired, there was no denying that. But Hermione was sure she had slept just the day before. That wasn't such a long time ago. 

 

The next thing she knew, Hermione was waking up in Harry's bed with a large shirt draped over her school uniform. Ah, they hadn't been able to get her up to her own dormitory. How had Harry gotten her up there before?

Oh. Hermione supposed it wasn't even a question. Pansy had done that. And now, she was no longer around to do things like that. 

Hermione missed her desperately, even her nasty attitude and lack of filter on the things she said. For Hermione, it was good to be with someone who was so comfortable with life. Pansy was never hurried, or pressured, or tense. She was just always... cool with her lot in life. Of course, there had been apologies on her end for their childhood, but Hermione had apologies to make as well. But out of all the time Hermione had known her, Hermione had never seen Pansy as undone as she had when they'd fought in the Great Hall. Actually, Hermione had never seen her raise her voice to a shout until that moment. 

Harry's bed was rather nice. 

In contrast to his messy attire, Harry's bed and belongings were actually organized and tidy. He had enlarged the perimeter of the curtains so they surrounded his whole space, and not just his bed. That way his trunk and side table were all under the curtains. Hermione looked around to see floating fairy lights strung up in the air without a chord, still glowing cheerfully. The bedside table harbored a towering stack of novels, the tipping pile most likely held up by magic. Harry's school bag was slumped by the foot of his bed next to another bag that Hermione didn't recognize until she saw the green tie peeking out from it. Hermione nodded to herself. Draco probably stayed here with Harry sometimes. It made sense why the fairy lights seemed unlike Harry's magical style, and the curtains had been enlarged. Also why there seemed to be an odd blend of green and gold Muggle streamers drifting through the air. 

The whole enclosure of drawn curtains and the contained objects gave off a happy boy ambiance and an odd but strangely comforting mix of both Draco and Harry. Hermione guessed the two spent a fair amount of their time enclosed in this perfect little castle. 

Hermione fell asleep again, knowing she was safe. 

 

The letter from Ron came several days later. 

 

_Hermione,_

_I didn't write for so long because I didn't want to say something I'd regret later. I'll probably still regret this, but I needed to write this before I see you again._

_I'm not going to lie to you, I was mad, really mad. I don't care that it's a girl. Honestly! That'd be bloody messed up if I did. I don't particularly care that it's Pansy Parkinson either (IF! And only if! She's apologized, changed, and treats you well). However, that doesn't mean I'm not hurt._

_Because I am._

_I'm hurt that you didn't trust me enough to tell me right away. I'm angry that you kept a secret like that for so long. I'm pissed that you led me on when you knew there was someone else out there for you. I am astounded that we were best friends during the summer, and then once you and Harry went off to school, you never wrote or talked to me. I was confused as hell. I didn't know why you (and Harry) would just drop me like that. I figured there would be an explanation, so I didn't do anything._

_Then I got your letter. So I was right in figuring there was an explanation, even if it was one I didn't like._

_By the way, I heard the whole story from Harry about the letters. Frankly, I think it was messed up of you to set Harry up with something like that. I know that it worked out better in the end, but seriously? You could have seriously destroyed him, and you very nearly did as it is. I'm not blaming you because I know you were only trying to help, but I do want to tell you that we could have lost our best friend because of that._

_I'm not angry at you anymore, really. I'm not happy with you, mind. But I'm not in a raging fit. Mum says it means I'm maturing. (She's not very happy with you either)._

_Things are not going to go back to normal right away. I'm sorry. I know you want me to forgive everything and then we can go back to being the Golden Trio._

_But, fairly, Harry spends the majority of his time with Draco and Blaise these days so I've heard. Probably Pansy too. He's pretty crazy about them, all of them, as weird as that seems. I'm busy with work, and I'm building my own connections. And who knows what you're doing these days._

_The Golden Trio hasn't been a trio for quite awhile now. Out of everything, that's what I'm most upset about._

_Ron_

 

Hermione sat the letter down in her lap and used her palms to wipe the tears off her face. 

Where was Harry? She missed him. His sweet clumsiness and messy laugh. 

Ron was so far away. Angry, hurt, and moving on with his life. 

Pansy, so close, yet so far. Extraordinarily pissed and pretty, and absolutely done with Hermione. 

And then there was the question that Hermione had been obsessing over for four months. Pansy clearly had not leaked the letters, as Hermione should've trusted ages ago. In that same logic, Draco hadn't leaked them either. Obviously, Harry hadn't leaked his own letters. Which left practically everyone else in the school as a suspect.

The suspect didn't have to know, probably hadn't known, that Harry had been involved in the letters. If Hermione was being honest with herself, it was most likely an act of idiotic revenge, trying to get at Draco for something. Embarrass him, expose his secrets to people who already hated him. Harry didn't come into the picture at all. He was simply the wrong player in this game at the wrong time. 

So if it was an act of revenge against Draco, it most likely wasn't any of his friends. That would take Blaise out of the picture as well. Hermione hesitated. She didn't know Blaise at all, aside from the occasional sarcastic comment. He was quiet and kept mostly to himself as far as anyone knew. 

It had to be an eighth year. No other years were allowed in their common room. It would've been easier if Draco were in the girls' dormitories, because then Hermione could narrow down half of the eighth years based on their ability to actually get into the dorm room. 

Hermione's head spun around and around. Harry, Ron, Pansy, who. Who did it, who did it. 

Who did it?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the end! I hope y'all can handle the suspense a little bit longer, but I promise your questions will be answered sooon! 18 chapters aren't necessarily completely set in stone, so it's possible and likely that there will be more than 18 chapters, but we'll have to see how it goes. Let me know what you think!


	16. Draco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took me longer than usual to write. I've got a ton going on, but I'm trying to cram the rest of this in so it's ready for the HP WIP Fest!

If someone had asked Draco several weeks ago if he would be holding Harry Potter's hand in the corridor, he would've laughed in their face. Except he was. Walking to Defense and holding Harry Potter's hand. Draco wanted to laugh in his own face. 

"-and did I tell you that Dudley sent me an apology letter?" Harry was saying, a huge grin on his face. "A real letter! I didn't think he knew how to spell his own name, but he even spelled Hogwarts right. Crazy, right?"

Draco nodded, a smile spreading across his face. He loved this so much. 

He had thought, when he was writing the letters, that there was no way for him to fall deeper in love. But Draco hadn't considered what it would feel like to know every part of a person, not just their mind. Knowing Harry's voice like this, and his eyes, and mouth, and infuriating hair, and how he was just slightly shorter than Draco. Knowing every part of Harry was so much more than just the letters. Draco didn't know how he'd survived with just written words for so long because having all of it was almost too much to handle. 

"Draco," Harry laughed. 

"What?" Draco nudged his shoulder playfully. 

"You're not listening to me!" Harry scowled mockingly and let go of Draco's hand, pushing him away. Draco grinned at the small teasing smirk peeking through Harry's facade. 

"I was too!" Draco insisted. 

"Fine." Harry crossed his arms over his chest. "What did I say?"

"Something about Dudley spelling Hogwarts right," Draco said.

"You're such an arse," Harry shoved Draco happily.

Draco snickered and then pulled Harry closer to him by his hand. He threw his arm over Harry's shoulder and pressed his nose into Harry's hair. For such a mess, Harry's hair smelled absolutely wonderful. Loose strands tickled Draco's nose and eyelashes, brushing essence of Harry across his face. 

"Harry?" A familiar voice called from behind him and Draco pulled his face away from Harry's hair quickly. He shouldn't have been so close to him in public anyways. Not with all the comments and glares they got. It wasn't fair to Harry. 

Harry turned around to clap Neville on the back with a hardly noticeable tension creasing his shoulders. If Draco hadn't been watching Harry so closely, he wouldn't have noticed it. 

"What's up, Neville?" Harry said politely. 

Neville shuffled his feet and ran a nervous hand through the thick brown hair flopping over his eyes. "I just wanted to say sorry."

Harry tensed up even more and Draco hesitantly placed a hand on his lower back. Was it okay to do this? He didn't know yet. It was so confusing with what was allowed and what wasn't. Things were strange with Harry because on the one hand, they'd been enemies since they were barely eleven years old and had nearly killed each other on multiple occasions. But on the other hand, they'd been sending letters back and forth for almost a year, and had told each other everything about themselves. Draco didn't know where to draw the line with Harry. 

"What's there to be sorry for?" Harry asked. 

"For all the things I said to you," Neville said. His eyes shot over to Draco briefly before flicking back to Harry. "About your life falling apart and asking how you acted fake so well. I shouldn't have said all those things."

"You were still thinking them," Harry said stiffly, but the muscles in his back released a little bit and Draco didn't take his hand away. 

"That doesn't mean I should've said them," Neville said, looking down at his feet. 

"Don't worry about it," Harry sighed. "I know you didn't mean it poorly."

Neville looked up, sorrow in his eyes. "It's just that Gran died, and I didn't know what to do. It's no excuse for the things I said, but I just wanted to be like you. Be able to carry on and for everyone to still love you even after you've lost everything." Neville's eyes flickered to Draco again, slightly uncomfortable this time. 

"I'm sorry to hear that," Harry's eyes were blown wide. 

"Don't worry about it," Neville sniffed and waved Harry off. "Is everything cool between us though?"

"Everything's cool." Harry smiled and gave Neville a quick back-slapping hug before turning into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.

The classroom remained the same as always. Hogwarts, in its glittering entirety, always seemed frozen in time, as if the stone walls and arcing windows would never leave the one place they existed in. The same cool scent greeted Draco as he sat down next to Harry and turned towards him. 

"What happened with Longbottom?" Draco asked. "Am I allowed to ask?"

Harry shrugged. "Nothing much. Just a misunderstanding."

Draco took that to mean he was not welcome to ask questions about it. 

The new DADA teacher stalked in, young and proud, as many of them were. Several guest professors had been switching out throughout the year, taking turns at teaching the class. It made for such a confusing curriculum that hardly anyone tried to pay attention anymore. 

Harry stared into space, looking as if he was attempting to murder the air with his gaze alone. 

"We need to talk," Harry turned to face Draco suddenly.

Draco looked up from where he had been doodling on his parchment. "What about?"

"Us," Harry pointed his finger between the two of them. 

Draco glanced up quickly at the professor whose name he hadn't bothered to learn. "Now?"

"No time like the present," Harry smiled a little at Draco. 

"What is it?" Draco asked. 

"I just... What's going on between us? I can't tell what's okay and what's not," Harry sighed. 

"Funny, I’ve been thinking the same thing," Draco said humorlessly. 

"What do you want to be?" Harry whispered. He shifted in his seat and sat on his hands, clearly uncomfortable. The soft chatter moving through the room flowed over their conversation, effectively masking them from eavesdroppers. 

Draco hesitated before speaking. What was holding him back? The war was over, the pain was over. Or if it wasn't over, it was time to start overcoming it. Draco couldn't wallow in misery for his whole life. Draco took a deep breath. There was no reason to hide anything at this point. Harry already knew everything about him anyways. 

"I want to be yours. Just yours."

"Mine?" Harry's face was beautiful and open. 

"Yes, yours," Draco hesitated. "Your boyfriend, if you want."

"Okay," Harry said. A smile spread across his face. "Okay, yes."

Draco looked back down at his paper. Honesty, he reminded himself. "I still don't know how to act around you."

There were a thousand things Draco wanted to say. Like how he had told Harry he was in love with him before he’d known who he was, but it was still true. And how he didn't even really know if Harry completely liked him like this, out in the open and knowing who he was. He wanted to say that he wished they hadn't met before the letters, but he couldn't because deep in his heart he knew they'd needed to meet and struggle and fight then. He knew that the release that came from finding Harry as his anonymous writer was needed after seven years of tension. 

"Let's just take it one step at a time," Harry said. 

Draco didn't think he could've said it better himself. 

 

Blaise looked extraordinarily nervous for someone eating blueberry pie. His hands twirled his fork in between and around his fingers and his eyes darted from side to side nauseatingly. 

"Is everything okay?" Draco asked. "Blaise?"

"Hm?" He looked over at Draco oddly. Unfocused, but overly aware. 

"I said, is everything okay?" Draco repeated. He set down his spoon in the soupy mess left from his ice cream. Vanilla had always been his favorite. 

"Everything's fine," Blaise said quickly, a strange smile plastered across his face. 

Blaise had been acting a little odd lately. Nothing particularly creepy, seeing as Harry had just joined the group and the Slytherin gang was still adjusting to having him around. Draco figured Blaise was trying to get used to Harry hanging out with them, but Harry wasn't here now. He was off writing a letter to Ronald Weasley. Apparently the two of them were having a passionate friend reunion over letter, and Draco had no intention of interrupting that. 

"Just tell me if something's wrong," Draco told Blaise firmly. Whatever was about to drip off Blaise's mouth seemed important enough, but Draco had homework to get to and sleep to catch up on from the stress of the past several weeks. 

"I leaked the letters," Blaise blurted. 

Draco stopped cold. All exhaustion and thoughts halted. 

Finally. He was finally getting an answer. Except this was all wrong, and it wasn't supposed to be Blaise. 

"What?" Draco said icily. 

"I was just looking for my orange socks that Mum gave me for New Year's and there was a box peeking out under your bed, and I was just going to shove it back under, but there was a letter thrown next to it. I didn't mean to pick it up, but I did and- I barely read any of it. As soon as I realized it was, I threw it in the box and left," Blaise gushed out in one breath. 

"So you didn't leak the letters?" Draco stared at Blaise harshly, waiting for him to bend in some way. Blaise had done it, Blaise had done it. 

"No! Not really. Except I forgot to shove the box back under, and someone must've found it and read them. I mean, they only knew they were yours because they were right by your bed. I doubt the person knew that those letters belonged to Potter." Blaise looked awful and wretched with guilt. 

Part of Draco wanted to berate him and yell, but a growing part in Draco told him this wasn't Blaise's fault. He hadn't known, he hadn't done anything out of malicious intent, he said he'd hardly even read any of the letters. Someone else had done this. 

"Blaise, stop rambling," Draco interrupted Blaise's blathering. "It's quite alright. It was only partially your fault." Draco hesitated. "It was mostly my own fault for being careless about the box in the first place. I hadn't known whether to take it on holidays with me and I forgot to hide it when my mother arrived to pick me up. You know she won't let me ride the train anymore. I just used the quickest solution I could think of at the moment."

"I'm sorry," Blaise said solemnly and earnestly. 

"It’s fine. Consider yourself forgiven," Draco said. There was nothing that could be done anymore. Blaise had nothing to do with all of this. 

And yet, a dark pit pooled and dripped in Draco's stomach. 

 

"And that's what Blaise said," Draco finished telling Harry in the empty common room late at night. "He scared me something silly when he said right off the bat that he'd leaked the letters."

Harry hummed thoughtfully and leaned back into the couch and stretched his arms behind him. "Wow."

"Do you still care about who it is?" Draco asked and scooted closer to Harry's side. His rib cage was warm and safe. It was even more pleasant when Harry rested his arm over Draco's shoulders. 

"In some ways, yes," Harry said. He didn't look away from the fire. The light and heat emanated from it, washing Harry in an orange gold light that flushed his cheeks and the tips of ears. "In other ways, I just want to forget about it."

Draco rested his head on Harry's shoulder and felt him sigh underneath him.

"Is this okay?" Draco whispered. 

"It's perfect," Harry finally looked down at Draco and smiled. 

"Hey, mecs," Pansy groaned and flopped down next to Harry on the couch. 

"Mecs? As in 'les mecs'?" Draco asked incredulously. 

Pansy flicked her bangs and sniffed. "I'm learning French," she said. 

"Why, exactly?" Draco said incredulously, still tucked under Harry's arm. 

"Why not?" Pansy said. She crossed her left leg neatly over her right and folded her arms across her chest, leaning back into the couch. "Have you talked to Blaise today?"

Draco narrowed his eyes. "Yes. Why do you ask?"

"Anything particularly interesting come up?" Pansy asked, avoiding Draco's gaze in an obvious fashion. 

"Did you know?" Draco asked, sitting up and away from Harry. 

Pansy glared over at him. "No! I would've made him tell you much earlier if I knew. He told me just this morning."

"Alright then," Draco said and leaned back. He didn't lean on Harry, though. For some reason, it just felt wrong to push his tension back on Harry's warm slouching figure, pressing all the stress and doubt that had been lingering over Draco's skin since the end of the war. He could feel Harry's gaze on him, but he didn't meet his eyes. "You firecalled Ronald today, didn't you?" Draco asked Harry. 

"Yeah," Harry said, and his gaze finally moved away.

Pansy leaned uncomfortably close towards them with interest. "Oh what happened?"

"Mercy, Pansy," Harry shoved her away a little bit, much to Draco's pleasure. "Are you looking to kiss Draco or can you trust me to do that?"

Pansy let out a startled laugh and flopped back on the opposite arm of the couch, throwing her feet up across Draco's legs. Burning red heat inched up Draco's face and he sank lower into the cushions at the sound of Harry's rumbling laugh. Harry shoved Pansy's feet away and nudged himself closer to Draco until one of his legs was thrown over Draco's where Pansy's had been and his head rested on Draco's shoulder. Black hair shoved its way up Draco's cheek, and he let himself rest his head on top of Harry's after barely a second thought. 

"Did you finish the Potions homework?" Harry asked Draco, jabbing his elbow into Draco's stomach. 

Draco huffed with the playful force. "Yes, you git. And no, you can't copy it."

Harry poked Draco's stomach. "I wasn't going to copy it, I promise. I just need you to explain it to me." Harry giggled- _giggled-_ and pulled Draco into a tight hug. “Please?”

"Stop sucking up to him," Pansy laughed and prodded Harry's thigh with her toe. 

"It's working," Harry said out of the corner of his mouth. 

Draco gasped dramatically. "I heard that! How dare you betray my trust?"

Huge green eyes turned up to Draco laughingly. "I would never!"

Pansy rolled her eyes and summoned a magazine out of her bag across the common room. _Witch Weekly_ unfolded in front of her face with a cheerful crinkling of thin, glossy pages. 

"Have either of you talked to Hermione lately?" Pansy asked offhandedly. Pansy's voice was far too loose, for Pansy was not a casual person. A witty person, a fun person, but not casual. 

"No," Draco said. He knew she wasn't asking him, but pretending to go along with her question was easier than sitting in silence. 

"A bit," Harry said tersely. Draco lifted a hand and set it over his spine, running his fingertips over the ridges.

"Okay?" Draco breathed to Harry. He nodded. 

"Has she... has she mentioned anything about me?" Pansy asked, missing Draco and Harry's exchange. 

Draco looked down to see grief and hope warring on Harry's face. "No, she hasn't mentioned you," he said. 

"Oh."

"I don't think she's doing great, though," Harry said. He was no longer talking to Pansy, but to himself. "She hardly talks to anyone. I don't spend that much time with her anymore. I... she... she hid Draco's letters from me after mine were initially leaked, and she had read them. She knew what they said, and she still didn't give them to me. I can't help but be mad, and she still hasn't apologized." Harry took a deep breath. "I don't know what's going on with her and Ron, but Ron hasn't mentioned her once since he wrote me back. I don't really know what’s going on with her, but she seems really isolated right now.”

“She _seems_ isolated?” Pansy asked. The _Witch Weekly_ magazine was still masking her face. 

“She is isolating herself. That’s what she does when she knows she’s messed up,” Harry said. He sagged further into Draco’s side. 

“And you haven’t tried to get through to her?” Pansy said, her words starting to take on a vicious edge. 

“Of course I have!” Harry said irritably. “But she knows I’m still upset with her, and I do have my own problems, you know.”

“Yes,” Pansy sighed, “I know.” Pansy finally set down the magazine; her face was bright red and her eyes were slanted in deep thought as they usually were. “I just want to fix things, but I’m so _angry_ that she didn’t trust me. I trusted her!”

“Hermione doesn't make friends very easily,” Harry reached over Draco to rest a hand on her leg. “It’s her nature to try and do everything on her own before she turns to other people. It’s not that she didn’t trust you specifically… it’s just she… she didn’t trust herself.”

Pansy’s face lit up alarmingly. 

“What’s going through your head, Pans?” Draco asked seriously. 

“I’ve got to go,” she said. 

And before Draco or Harry could give one word of advice, Pansy had leapt off the couch and vanished out the common room door. 

“Should we go after her?” Harry asked, startled. 

“No,” Draco relaxed again. “I tried to stop her from eating three king sized pumpkin pasties when we were thirteen, and I have since learned not to try and stop Pansy from making bad decisions.”

Harry laughed, a sound Draco thought he would never get used to hearing in real life. Of course, he had heard him laugh before with Ron and Hermione, but it was never directed at him or really even close to him. All those laughs he had heard before felt surreal and dream-like, as if they had never been real. This was real. 

Harry’s shoulder jabbed into Draco’s arms, one hand resting over Draco’s belly button. One of his legs was thrown over Draco’s. Draco’s arm curled around Harry’s head, which rested on his shoulder. This warmth and comfortable, awkward newness. 

This was real. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked! We're almost to the end!


	17. Hermione

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got to crank these chapters out before September 1 for the HP WIP Fest!

Pansy Parkinson was running full speed down the corridor towards Hermione, and she had no idea why. 

The evening flickered on, full of torches lighting the solemn way back to the common room and dorms. Hermione knew she was trying to slow down her path to the eighth year wing. She would have to go through the common room, which would inevitably hold Draco, Harry, and of course, Pansy. And tonight of all nights, after endless hours in the library, was not the night to have to look at that as she tried to sneak into her dorms where no one would be able to see her behind her curtains. 

Except Pansy was running full speed towards her. Hermione glanced over her shoulder, trying to see if there was anyone else behind her. But who would it be? Pansy wasn't an extraordinarily extroverted person, and only had a small group of close friends. Hermione's gut twisted. She had been part of that inner circle and she had ruined it. 

So it was a surprise when Pansy hardly stopped or slowed down before bowling into Hermione. She didn't realize what was happening until she was falling back onto the ground, Pansy's arms around her tightly. 

"Pansy?" Hermione squirmed. "Are you trying to choke me, or-?"

"What?" Pansy leaned back and glared. "I'm hugging you!"

"Hugging me?" Hermione blinked up at where Pansy was kneeling over her. 

"You crazy girl," Pansy sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Should I say it again? I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" Hermione asked. "I'm the one who should be sorry."

"Are you?" Pansy said. 

"Of course I am," Hermione narrowed her eyes. "I've been saying sorry to you for several weeks now!"

Pansy sat back on her heels, away from Hermione, on the cool castle floor. "I know you're sorry about me. I'm sorry, too. But I didn't get it until Harry said-"

"What did Harry say?" Hermione interrupted. She scrambled to her feet and brushed off her robes primly. 

Pansy stood up slowly in front of her. "Just that you knew you had messed up. I guess I didn't truly believe that you knew how your actions were affecting everyone else."

Hermione crossed her arms. 

"But I know you do, and did. And I'm telling you now that I know too," Pansy said. She stepped closer to Hermione hesitantly and leaned her weight forward. She was close, but not too close. Hermione hated her a little bit for knowing exactly how to act around her. 

"What do you know?" Hermione said quietly. She couldn't bring herself to tear her eyes away from Pansy's mussed hair, the light beads of sweat sparkling across the crown of her head, her dark lipsticked lips. It looked like she'd run all over the castle. 

"I know that I messed up. That my own hurt and actions were hurting other people," Pansy stepped even closer. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to hurt you."

Hermione's shoulders sagged. She just wanted all this to be over. All the secrets, mistakes, coveted glances, fighting. "I won't blame you for being human," Hermione whispered. 

"Don't blame yourself for it either."

And then suddenly Pansy was kissing her, and Hermione had dropped her books. The pages crumpled and tumbled around their feet. Pansy tasted like dusty lipstick, sweat, and the sweet perfume she wore behind her ears. She tasted like vanilla whipped cream and butter, and Hermione loved it. 

They hadn't kissed before. 

They were kissing. It was perfect. 

Hermione leaned back just barely, leaving their faces so close that their lips brushed when Hermione breathed. 

Perfect. 

 

They walked back to the common room together, hand in hand. When they entered, Harry's head lifted from Draco's shoulder and peeked over the back of the couch. Harry's mouth dropped open and Draco's head swiveled around to stare. 

"I'm assuming this means you've figured everything out?" Draco raised an eyebrow. 

"Yes," Hermione looked over and smiled at Pansy. 

"Good," Draco leaned back happily and Harry returned to his position curled into Draco's side. 

Hermione took a deep breath. Harry hadn't said anything, which meant he was still upset. He tended to do that: not say anything and simply wallow and suffer until someone had enough common sense to pull him away from his own darkness. 

"Harry," Hermione said quietly. She released Pansy's hand and kneeled in front of him. "I'm so sorry. For starting this mess, and for hiding the letters, and invading your privacy. I was trying to protect you, but... please forgive me."

Harry sat up and Draco didn't straighten with him. 

"Please don't do it again," he said. 

Hermione's heart cracked a little, but also mended a little bit more. His eyes were wide, but soft, and there was no anger etched in his face. Harry's dark hair tumbled over his forehead and the back of his neck and his glasses slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose. Harry Potter truly was a beautiful thing, inside and out. 

"I won't," Hermione breathed. 

Harry surged forward and hugged her tightly. It was awkward. Hermione was sitting on the floor and Harry was leaning strangely from where he was sitting on the couch, and the angles were all wrong, but it was good. Perfect. Happiness bubbled over the guilt and for the first time since they had come back to Hogwarts, Hermione felt all of the tension that had been building up since the end of the war release a little bit. Hermione was infinitely glad to have one of her best friends back. 

Hermione kissed Harry's cheek gently and let him go. She let Pansy pull her away, back up to the dorms, up to Pansy's dorm. Just before she left, her eyes skidded over to Draco and Harry bumping heads and then laughing quietly in an unspoken, odd apology. Pansy's hand was warm around her own as they climbed the stairs up to the dorm. 

Good, perfect. 

 

Hermione woke up to a very sleepy Pansy doing her makeup in a handheld mirror. She was dressed, but laying on top of the covers where Hermione was still clothed in a borrowed pair of pajamas and furled up in Pansy's comforter.

"Morning," Pansy grinned around a tube of bright purple lipstick. 

"Mornin'," Hermione mumbled and turned over. 

"The boys were up early this morning, snapping away from the stairs for us to get up," Pansy laughed and kissed Hermione's cheek. 

"Lipstick, Pans!" Hermione rubbed at her cheek. "What did they want?"

"Not sure," Pansy shrugged, "but Harry seemed to think it was pretty urgent, and I was already up anyways. Well, I wasn't. You know me. But they kept hollering, and  _then_ I was up. You seemed tired, though, so I let you sleep in a little longer." Pansy winked and patted Hermione's frizzy, tangled curls down onto the pillow. She flung her legs off the side of the bed and stalked over to the dormitory door. "Well, are you coming?"

"Lord," Hermione groaned, "I'm barely awake!"

"Come on!" Pansy pleaded teasingly. "I'm in a good mood. Let's go downstairs. They're only in the common room."

"Fine."

Hermione rolled out of bed, dragging the comforter with her. She wrapped it around her shoulders and let it trail after her as she followed Pansy down the stairs to the common room. 

The first thing she saw was Harry's face, which was frantic and off kilter. Draco stood right behind him, one hand holding onto Harry's wrist, and with his robes and hair clearly disheveled in a rather un-Draco like fashion. Pansy stopped abruptly and Hermione bumped into her back, nearly sitting down in the comforter with the force of rebounding off of Pansy. 

"What is it now?" Hermione said with annoyance. It was very early in the morning. There was no reason for them all to have dragged her down here with no reason other than to make her suffer in the early hours of the morning. Normally Hermione didn't struggle with getting up in the morning, but she'd spent much of her evening snogging Pansy Parkinson, and that seemed to be quite exhausting if done for half the night. "Seriously," Hermione said. 

Harry and Draco didn't move. Pansy didn't move.

Hermione pushed Pansy's shoulder to the side so that she could see around her. 

What she saw was a very shell-shocked Ronald Weasley standing limply in the middle of the common room. 

Ron.


	18. Harry

It had been a long morning already. 

Harry had been woken rather viciously by an over excited Ronald Weasley hanging over his bed, the curtains thrown wide open. Thank all that was holy that Draco had gone up to his own dorm the previous evening, because that would’ve been awful. Of course, Ron knew that him and Draco had gotten together, no matter how new it was. But that didn’t mean it would be a pleasant experience to be woken up that way with an exhausted Draco sprawled across Harry’s bed in an oversized shirt and boxers. 

Draco never stayed over intentionally. All of this was too recent for that. But the two of them loved to hang out in the little permanent fort they had created in Harry’s space behind his curtains, and sometimes when they were up late working on schoolwork, or debating the best way to execute a charm, Draco would just fall asleep there. Harry never complained. Draco would simply slump over asleep, then wake up an hour later, frazzled and too exhausted to walk in a straight line. There was no way Harry was going to let him walk down the stairs and all the way to Slytherin boys’ dorms, so he just helped Draco into something resembling pajamas and led him back to bed. It was nice, though. 

Nice to have something so innocent, and domestic, and good.

Harry didn’t want Ron, or anyone, intruding on those moments that belonged to just him and Draco. 

“Surprise!” Ron had bellowed in his face. 

It had been quite the surprise.

And then Draco had walked into the dorms, grinning widely until he’d seen Ron, at which point he’d quickly backed out of the room. Ron must’ve seen the desperate look in Harry’s eyes at Draco’s disappearance because he’d trekked out of the Gryffindor dorms, Harry chasing after him and trying to make his appearance at least halfway decent. 

Surprisingly, Ron had been rather cool about meeting Draco. Or rather, re-meeting Draco. The whole thing was stiff and uncomfortable, but decent. 

And now they were all sitting at one of the little tables in the Great Hall, all trying to find something to say, and all coming up short. 

"It's good to see you, Weasley," Pansy said. The smile on her face was forced. 

"And you," Ron nodded. The smile in his voice was forced. 

Draco edged closer to Harry and whispered in his ear, "Did he tell you he was coming?"

Harry shook his head in response. 

"We might as well acknowledge the elephant in the room," Pansy sighed. Harry was surprised Hermione didn't say it, but Hermione hadn't said a word since Ron had arrived. "What happened between all of you? Seriously. You guys were the dream team."

Harry and Hermione both shrank back. 

"Let's just figure this out," Pansy said calmly, sitting up straighter. 

"I think we need to do this ourselves," Hermione spoke for the first time. "We made this mess."

Harry nodded and Ron said, "I agree."

"Fair enough," Draco said. He stood and leaned over to kiss Harry softly on the cheek before linking his arm in Pansy's and striding out of the Great Hall cheerfully, chattering happily to Pansy. 

The silence Draco and Pansy left behind was crippling. Harry had gotten so used to their habits and the cadences of their speech and presence that he hadn't known how much he loved it until they were gone, leaving him with people he had fallen out of step with. He still loved Ron and Hermione, but he could admit they'd drifted apart. The thing was is that Harry didn't want that. He didn't want them to drift apart and be acquaintances, once old friends. They had been inseparable during the war, and that shouldn't have to change now just because they were older and trying to find where to go in life. Harry wanted to be best friends with Ron and Hermione no matter how different their paths were. The same way he always wanted to be a part of Draco's and Pansy's lives no matter how tumultuous their past had been. Harry didn't want to lose his family. 

Harry opened his mouth to try to say this to them, but nothing came out. The silence carried on. 

Harry thought of Draco and his words. How perfect he always said everything. He thought of the letters he had written to Draco, and now several other people. Ron and Dudley, both letters of explanations, and for Ron, a letter of apologies. Harry had been shocked to receive a letter of apology from Dudley Dursley, but the correspondence had sparked a cautious familiarity. Harry thought about how long he had kept his words inside, unable to say them right, unable to get his message across, always wallowing in his own incapability. The words didn't need to be perfect, Harry realized. No one expected him to be perfect. He just needed to try, and to be honest. That's what he had done in the letters, right? And all of that had worked. 

So Harry spoke. And when he opened his mouth this time, the words came out. It wasn't perfect, and he stumbled over nearly every other sentence. His voice wasn't sweet and stumbling like Draco's, or sharp and witty like Pansy's. It wasn't clipped and brilliant like Hermione's, or warm and bowing like Ron's. It was messy, just like Harry, but it was good. 

Harry talked about the war, about trying to hide everything he thought and felt. He talked about the aftermath, and not knowing what to say or how to talk to anyone. He talked about coming to Hogwarts over the summer, not knowing how to be around the Weasleys and Ginny, the new Neville Longbottom, becoming friends with Draco and Pansy. He talked about the distance between the three of them, and how he didn't want that. He wanted it to be them in the world together as they had been. He just talked, and they listened.

And when it was over, Harry took a deep breath and a sip of water and sat back cautiously in his seat. 

"Wonderfully said, mate," Ron clapped him on the back. 

"Wonderfully said?" Harry asked incredulously. He hadn't thought it sounded wonderful at all. 

"Yeah," Ron grinned at him. "I missed you. I must say, though, I think Hermione and those Slytherins are rubbing off on you. Your vocabulary has surpassed my understanding."

Harry shoved him and laughed. "Sod off."

Ron's laugh echoed through the Great Hall and he slung an arm around Harry. "I really have missed you, mate."

Hermione reached across the table and rested a hand over Harry's. She hesitated, looking at Ron, and then rested a dark hand over his pale, freckled one. "My boys," she said, "how did we end up like this?"

"We didn't end up like anything," Harry said, squeezing her hand. "Our life is just beginning."

"Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall's voice brisked out behind him.

Harry spun around in his seat to stare up at her. "Professor?"

"I need to speak with you." Without a further word, she turned on her heel, and Harry had no choice but to follow her. 

She hurried all the way up to Dumbledore's office, although Harry supposed it was her office now, seeing as she was Headmistress. It must have been a lot on her plate to be the Transfiguration teacher and Headmistress. Harry knew she was no longer Head of Gryffindor House, but there had been an extreme shortage of staff and faculty after the war for a multitude of reasons, and many of the current staff had been filling multiple positions in order to keep the school running. 

"This way," McGonagall said, ushering Harry into the office. 

It looked almost exactly the same as when Dumbledore had died. Whirling, tinkling golden trinkets littered the room and all its surfaces, and the same aged paintings stared down judgmentally from the rounded walls. The room held a certain warmth still, although the thrown open windows let in a cool breeze. The only thing odd about the room was that there was a person sitting where Harry had used to sit across from Dumbledore in sixth year. A sense of dreadful foreboding arose in Harry's chest. 

Ginny Weasley. 

"Why am I here?" Harry asked slowly, walking around to see her face. A wash of guilt rinsed over him. Harry hadn't thought about Ginny since he had left the Weasleys over the summer. He had been so worried about other things, that he'd forgot that he was supposed to be worrying about her too. How she was feeling, how she was handling the war. They had been friends before they'd dated. And then, without talking to her, Harry had gone off and started holding Draco Malfoy's hands in the corridors. Oh. 

Wait.

"I think you may have an idea," McGonagall swept her robes behind her and took a seat in the towering chair behind Dumbledore's old desk. 

Harry sank weakly into a chair off to the side of the room. "Ginny?" Harry whispered. 

She turned around. Waving red hair hung around her face and shoulders, bunching and curling glossily. Her eyes were as brown as always, but her eyes and eyelashes were rimmed with red and wet. Freckled cheeks blushed pink and she ducked her head.

"Harry," she said. It felt like Ginny was always saying his name. Deja vu ran through Harry. 

"Why are you here?" Harry couldn't look away from her. 

She didn't respond. 

"Miss Weasley," McGonagall said firmly. 

"I did it," Ginny blurted. "I'm the one who copied all the letters."

Harry couldn't answer. Something was stuck in his throat, and he didn't know what to do other than just sit there, silent and shocked. 

"You leaked the letters?" Harry choked out. Ginny nodded without looking at him. 

"I really didn't mean to," she muttered to her lap. "It's just. I was so in love with you, and you couldn't even look at me! Then you ran off here during the summer and I hadn't seen you since. And next time I hear anything about you, you're snogging Draco Malfoy." Anger crept into her voice. "But you never talked to me, never bothered to tell me it was over. You just... forgot."

She was right, she was right. Harry felt sick and guilty. Everything Ginny was saying was true. 

"I wasn't in the right state of mind," Ginny shook her head violently at herself. "I don't know what came over me. I was with Luna and she was grabbing something Malfoy had forgotten at school to send it to him over the holidays. They're friends, you know. And I just saw the letters laying there on the floor. I knew they were yours right away from the handwriting, and they were under Malfoy's bed! It didn't take much to put two and two together after I read them. I don't know..."

Ginny slumped over and set her forehead on the desk in front of her with a profound whimper.

Harry started forward and very carefully put a hand on her trembling back. Morning sunlight streamed in through the open windows, alighting her hair to a fiery gold. Harry had been a fool. A fool to not just tell her the truth that he couldn't handle physical or emotional contact back then, and by the time he could, it was someone else. 

“It was more to hurt Malfoy than you,” Ginny said quietly. “I didn’t think it through. At all.”

Harry opened his mouth to respond before Ginny interrupted abrasively.

"I didn't even know you were gay!" Ginny threw her hands up into the air, startling Harry back. "Merlin, I feel like such an idiot."

"I'm not gay," Harry said gently. 

"You're dating a boy, Harry," Ginny said flatly, finally looking at him. McGonagall shifted behind her. 

"Listen, it doesn't matter," Harry shook it off. He didn't want to talk about who he'd fallen in love with with McGonagall or Ginny. "You're right. I was an arse and a git, and every other bad name you can think of. I'm sorry. It only makes it worse, but... I really wasn't thinking. Everything about the war, everything after it before I came back to Hogwarts, didn't feel real. Even now, it's only a dream. I can't handle the thought that I actually lived through it." Harry took a deep breath and pushed Ginny's tumbling hair behind her shoulder. She stiffened, but didn't move away. "I'm truly sorry for what I put you through."

Ginny shrugged heavily. "I'm sorry for releasing your letters."

"We're alright then?" Harry asked. He didn’t want to dwell on this for too long. Maybe what Ginny had done was horrid and cruel, but Harry’s actions weren’t excusable either. He tried to smile at her, just a small twitch of the corners of his mouth.

"No hard feelings," Ginny said with a weak smile. 

She stood and left the room. Just before she turned away, she glanced back at Harry and nodded slightly at him. He nodded back and smiled. And then she left. 

Harry had expected finding out who had destroyed half his year would be so much worse. He had expected it to be someone he hated, expected the ordeal to be harder. But it was there, and then it was gone. Just like that. 

"Potter. Before you leave," Mcgonagall stopped him before Harry could move to go. "I owe you an apology as well."

"For what?" Harry raised an eyebrow in a way that reminded himself of Draco. 

"For being so harsh on you this year." McGonagall's face was as stern as ever. 

Harry shrugged. "It's alright."

And then he left and didn't look back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there you guys! Just the epilogue to go!


	19. An Epilogue (of Sorts)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is the epilogue!
> 
> Wow it has been such a long and crazy journey writing this, and now it's finally done! Cheers!

Sunshine beamed out over the young spring grass of the Hogwarts grounds. Tiny droplets of dew clung to the blades of grass, mostly stomped down by an abundance of feet. For some inexplicable reason, seemingly half the world wanted to see Harry Potter graduate. 

"Rita Skeeter is  _literally_ and  _actually_ licking her lips," Draco said to Harry, a wicked smile on his face. "Are you seeing this? I can't believe I'm seeing this."

"Oh Draco, ew! Look, she's staring Harry down!" Pansy clung to Hermione's arm and pretended to throw up. "Isn't she like fifty or something?"

"I'm pretty sure she's in her late thirties," Hermione grinned. She cautiously smoothed out her graduation robes for the millionth time and straightened her pointed hat. 

"Hey!" Ron jogged up, formal Auror in-training robes bellowing behind him. 

"Wow, look at you!" Pansy winked at Ron. "All professional now!" Hermione shoved Pansy's shoulder playfully until she leaned over fondly to peck Hermione on the lips. 

"Is everyone ready for the big day?" Ron asked gleefully. 

"I've been counting down the days," Pansy groaned. "I've already got a venue picked out in Hogsmeade for my robes and accessories shop. All I have to do is officially graduate eighth year, and I'll be all set."

"And I've found a little place for a bookstore," Hermione clasped her hands excitedly. "Of course I'll just get it started, and then I'll want to travel, and-"

"And what about you, Draco?" Ron interrupted Hermione swiftly. "Ready to graduate?"

Draco looked up thoughtfully at Hogwarts and linked his fingers with Harry's. "Bittersweet, but I'm ready. I suspect I'll be back before long." Draco smiled at Harry privately. 

Harry had already discussed a teaching position at Hogwarts with McGonagall, but before he went back to school, Harry needed some time to live his own life. A life without expectations, rules, or schedules. A way that he could live and learn while experiencing new things. He wanted to skip off to random parts of the world with Draco by his side and find out who Harry was supposed to be before he had to come back to this life and be Harry Potter again. He just needed a little time, and now he could finally take it. 

A brisk announcement skimmed across the grounds, calling all guests, students, and graduating class to the set up chairs and tents for the ceremony to begin. 

The whole thing was organized and well put together. McGonagall made an introduction and then handed the magically amplified podium to several professors. Their messages were all sweet and short, and primarily relieved to see this year go out into the world. The professors said they were excited to see what this class would go out to do in the world, but Harry thought they were glad to be rid of such a problematic group of now adults.

Finally McGonagall returned to the podium and cleared her throat. 

"First of all," she said, "I want to thank all of you for joining us here today. It took much effort and loss to reach this point and such a happy event, and there should be no overlooking what it took to be able to have this. So thank you to the people who are here today, and also to those who couldn't make it."

Draco stiffened beside Harry in his seat, and Harry thought about his parents, who had been missing for the whole event. Harry rested his hand on Draco's knee and glanced at him reassuringly. He would be here even if the Malfoys were not. 

"Truly, the past years with these students have been a wild adventure, and a path in the making. They will all do wonderfully in whatever they choose, and I truly hope they maintain the connections that they made here at Hogwarts.

“One of the joys of being an educator is to watch your students grow up in front of your very eyes. I remember the day clearly when each bunch I have taught has shuffled into the Great Hall, this graduating class better than most. And I remember watching them grow, fail, form friendships, fight, win, and fall in love. I have watched them go from children to adults.

“And with this, I would like to congratulate these students in their accomplishments and wish them well in their future. Congratulations!" McGonagall wiped under her eyes quickly and the ceremony continued with a swell of applause. 

Their names were read out, quickly, as there were not many of them left. And then they received a rolled, sparkling certificate, and it was over. 

Harry pulled Draco closer to him as they stood off to the side, waiting for their friends to join them. 

"I was thinking we could go to America first," Harry said lightly. 

"America?" Draco looked slightly assaulted. 

"Why not America?" Harry poked Draco's shoulder. 

"Wherever will I get my afternoon tea?" Draco said seriously, and Harry let out a loud, happy laugh. 

Pansy and Hermione joined them, holding hands and chattering happily. They were quickly joined by Ron, Blaise, Luna, Ginny, and Neville, all moving in a large crowd of jumbled voices. How magnificently their lives had become one. 

"Congratulations, Harry! Draco!" Ginny hugged them both tightly at once. Luna came to stand behind her when she leaned away and patted both their heads oddly. It was sweet in a Luna sort of way. 

"Thank you," Harry smiled happily and turned to congratulate Blaise and Neville. 

"Oh look at all of you!" Mrs. Weasley bustled up to them with Mr. Weasley in tow. "All grown up and graduating!"

"Thanks, Mrs. Weasley," Harry hugged her tightly. "For everything."

"Of course, dear," Mrs. Weasley ruffled his hair and Mr. Weasley shook Harry's hand. "Now all of you get in together! I want a photo!"

They all groaned but huddled in together in front of the silhouette of Hogwarts.

Luna and Ginny plopped onto the ground and thew their arms around each other, hugging tightly. They had graduated as well, after all. Neville and Ron slapped out an obscure handshake and Blaise shoved them slightly to the sides so he had room to join in. Pansy and Hermione kneeled in the grass, clustered close to Luna and Ginny and the boys. Pansy reached around to help Hermione pull her back for the photo, a hair tie held in between her teeth. Draco and Harry moved closer as well and kissed lightly, infinitely happy to just be there. 

Motion swirled around the group, clustered and trying to prepare. The click of the camera snapped and protests arose that no one had been ready for the photo. Mrs. Weasley grinned and pulled the film picture out of her spelled camera. What was in the frame was beautiful. A lovely collage of all the ways their lives and love had come together, and new hope filling their postures with the prospects of the life in front of them. Happiness sang from the folds of the snapshot. 

Draco showed Harry the picture with a silly, big smile spreading across his face. Harry ran his fingers through the hair at the nape of Draco's neck, trailing his fingers down his back to pull him closer and look over his shoulder at the photo. They kissed and the camera snapped again.

All was well. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100 million thank yous and kudos to all the people who came back to read this with each new chapter, and to all the amazing people who left kudos and comments and the most amazing analysis's. Every single one of your comments absolutely made my day and encouraged me to keep writing this, so thank you thank you thank you!  
> Another thank you to everyone who reached out and left me encouragement and inspiration when I was tired and didn't think I could finish this.  
> And of course thank you to @haecceitism on Tumblr for giving me this wonderful idea that took me so many places. 
> 
> Thank you! And until next time <3

**Author's Note:**

> I edited it and read through, but if you see any mistakes let me know!
> 
> Thanks for reading! Stay tuned for more!


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